NiRISHfARISH 


ITS  SUNSHINE 
AND  SHADOWS 


FATHER  THOMAS  CAWLEY 


Rev.  Thomas  Cawley. 


WWWWWWWW&WWW] 

Bn  ITrteb  flbansb 

its 


Sunshine  anb  Sbafcows. 


BY 


REV.  THOMAS  CAWLEY. 


W 

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1911 

Angel  Guardian  Press, 
Boston,  Mass. 


WWWWWWWWWWWWWW' 


Copyright  1911. 

BY 

REV.  THOMAS  CAWLEY. 


All  rights  reserved. 


C3 


DEDICATION: 

"TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  MY  BROTHER, 

Dr.  Patrick  T.  Cawley, 

WHO  TAUGHT  ME  GREATER  LOVE  FOR  IRELAND 
AND 

to  the  friends  i  have  made 
in  America,  who  helped  me 
to  do  something  for  My  Country." 


CONTENTS: 

PAGE 


The  Author  and  Myself  ....  1 

The  Ladin'  Man  o'  the  Parish  .  .  5 
The  Lonely  Sentinel  of  Slieve 

Ban   31 

Another  Talk  with  the  Author  .  49 

A  Great  Sparer   53 

Only  a  Stonebreaker  ....  73 

The  Tale  of  a  Beggar  ....  89 

Cliffs  and  Sea   109 

The  Mystic  and  the  Man       .  113 

Another  Chat   125 

Purty  Caricatures  they  are  in 

Troth    129 

The  Old  Pew  Near  the  Altar    .  153 

What  Runs  in  the  Blood  .    .    .  161 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS: 


Facing  page: 


"I'm  a  bad  man,  so  I  am,"  he  said 

to  himself  again  and  again    18 

She  never  questioned  him  about  what 

was  troubling  him    26 

"Dhramin,    dhramin'    by   his  lonely 

fireside. "    34 

"He  stays  there  till  the  Sun  has  gone 

to  rest  an'  thin  he  comes  down"    .  .  47 

"We  have  been  duped  too  often  to  any 
longer  place  trust  there,' '  said  Fr. 
O'Hara.  (I  wonder  was  he  think- 
ing of  Limerick?)    50 

Dick  bore  it  all  patiently   65 

"Old  Balstone  of  Balstone  Castle  was 
a  cold,  hard-hearted  man,"  said 
Ned    78 

He  was  acting  on  the  orders  of  Col. 

Cartley,  the  agent  took  care  to  say  97 

Often  had  I  admired  that  scene    109 

A  rustic  was  on  the  road  and  the  Stran- 
ger had  not  yet  seen  him   115 

Dr.  MacSharry  examined  his  motives  147 

"Misfortune  had  put  the  wide,  wide 
sea  between  thimselves  an'  six  o' 
their  childreV    155 

*Little  Cronan  was  the  idol  of  his 

father    162 

Beyond   near   Ceanngarbh  a  barque 

was  ashore    168 


*Erratum  under  illustration,  p.  Supra. 


"THE  AUTHOR  AND  MYSELF" 


FATHER  Frank  O'Hara  was,  according 
to  the  common  opinion  of  the  parish- 
ioners, "  a  nice,  quite,  aisy-goin'  man  that 
you  wouldn't  know  was  in  the  place  at  all, 
weren't  it  for  seem'  him  an  odd  time." 
His  brother  priests  thought  him  "silent  and 
timorous  without  a  bit  of  'go'  in  him."  I 
shared  in  the  general  verdict  until  we  were 
a  few  months  curates  of  neighbouring  parish- 
es, and  then  I  learned  the  true  character 
of  the  man,  whom  for  many  years,  as  boy 
and  fellow  student  I  had  personally  known. 
Whether  it  was  a  newly  acquired  knowledge 
of  kindred  tastes  that  drew  us  close  together, 
I  cannot  say,  but  however  it  was,  the  bar- 
rier of  reserve,  that  kept  him  apart  from 
others,  seems  to  have  gradually  disappeared 
in  my  case,  and  I  found  in  him  a  trusting 
and  trustworthy  friend. 

I  remember  one  evening  I  called  over  to 
see  him.  We  were  seated  by  the  fireside 
after  dinner,  and  our  conversation  kept  drift- 
ing, as  conversations  will,  till  it  seemed  the 
most  natural  thing  in  the  world  for  him  to 
inquire : 

"Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  what  a  great 
tendency  there  is  in  people  to  confide  dif- 
ficulties and  troubles  to  others,  and  the  strange 
thing  is  the  confidence  seems  to  beget  a  re- 
lief of  some  sort?" 


2 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


"I  know  it,  "I  returned,  '  'and  not  alone 
are  troubles  confided,  but  personal  interests 
as  well;  I  expect  it  satisfies  some  natural 
craving.' 9 

"That  is  quite  true;  there  must  be  some 
such  craving/ '  he  said. 

"There  are  of  course  exceptions  to  prove 
the  rule/'  I  continued,  "otherwise  you  must 
be  the  happiest  man  in  the  world,  free  from 
trouble  worry,  and  care." 

"Why  didn't  you  add  "personal  interests/' 
he  rejoined,  "I  suppose  you  thought  the  ad- 
dition would  hurt." 

"Not  at  all,  that  was  not  the  reason.  It 
would  not  be  true  to  say  you  are  free  of  per- 
sonal interests;  others  may  think  so  but  I 
know  you." 

"You  know  me,  do  you?  Well  now,  let's 
see!  You  never  suspected  me  of  attempting 
to  become  —  to  become  an  author,?"  the 
last  words  were  said  rather  hesitatingly. 

"Author!  to  become  an  author!"  I  could 
not  conceal  my  amazement.  "Surely  that 
is  one  of  the  last  things  I  would  suspect  you 
of,  Fr.  Frank.  And  you  really  attempted 
authorship?  I  sincerely  hope  you  did  not 
write  a  book  of  sermons?"  Fr.  Frank's 
sermons  were  rather  dry. 

"No!"  and  he  shook  his  head  slowly,  "I  did 
not  aim  so  high."  He  failed  to  see  the  point 
of  my  remark.  "Better  men  than  I  am  have 
written  enough  in  that  line.  My  efforts  are 
in  lighter  vein.    I  can't  call  them  stories  as 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  3 


that  implies  fiction  and  a  deal  of  plot,  nor  can 
they  be  exactly  called  sketches,  so  I  expect  a 
fitting  description  would  be  "Glimpses  of 
Irish  rural  life  as  I  see  it, —  with  a  glance 
backwards  now  and  again.'" 

"And  may  I  ask  how  far  you  have  gone?" 
was  my  inquiry. 

"Well,"  he  drawled,  "I  have  gone  to  the 
extent  of  putting  them  on  paper." 

"Never  tried  an  editor?" 

"No,"  he  returned  with  a  smile,  "I  never 
could  pluck  up  sufficient  courage  to  face  an 
editor.  The  rejection  of  even  one  of  my  ef- 
forts might  stop  my  writing  altogether  and 
deprive  me  of  my  chief  pleasure." 

"I  call  your  lack  of  courage  pride,"  I  said 
severely,  "and  think  you're  selfish  to  keep  all 
the  pleasure  to  yourself." 

"To  tell  the  truth,  I  could  never  persuade 
myself  that  I  could  write  anything  that 
would  interest  others,"  he  spoke  very  mild- 
ly. "My  sermons,  for  example,  are  interest- 
ing to  myself,  yet  no  one  else  seems  to  care 
for  them.  That  fact  increased  my  diffidence 
and  made  me  silent.  Even  now  I  have  had 
a  struggle  to  speak  to  you  on  the  matter;  for 
weeks  I've  been  thinking  over  it,  and  you 
may  notice  this  evening  how  gradually  I  led 
our  conversation  from  the  natural  tendency 
in  man  to  confide  up  to  my  own  little  con- 
fidence." 

"A  little  confidence  in  yourself,  would 
much  improve  you,  Frank"  I  rejoined,  "an 


4 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


duine  nach  bhfuil  meas  aige  air  fein,  nil  meas 
ag  aoine  air,  says  the  old  Irish  proverb/ ' 

"Perhaps  if  you  do  me  a  favour,  I  may 
acquire  that  gift," 

"With  pleasure  if  it  be  in  my  power." 

"Then  here  are  the  keys  of  my  desk,"  he 
singled  one  from  the  bunch,  "open  the  top 
right  hand  drawer;  there  you  will  find  a 
bundle  of  manuscripts  tied  with  white  rib- 
bon. Sort  them  out  when  you  have  leisure 
and  if  you  think  any  worthy  of  publication, 
try,  but  for  goodness'  sake,  keep  the  writer's 
name  to  yourself.  If  they  are  rejected, 
don't  tell  me.  Let  me  live  in  my  fool's 
paradise,  writing  away  for  at  least  my  own 
amusement." 

That  is  how  I  came  to  carry  home  at 
nightfall  a  huge  collection  of  closely  written 
pages,  and,  according  to  his  own  wish,  I 
have  concealed  the  author's  identity  under 
the  fictitious  name  of  Father  Francis  O'Hara. 

Among  the  first  acquaintances  Fr.  Frank 
made  when  he  came  to  Clochfada  were  Mr. 
Matt  Reardon  and  Mr.  Murty  Glynn, —  one 
of  them  "the  leading  man  of  the  parish," 
the  necessary  result  of  a  bad  system,  the  other 
a  rustic  philosopher,  sensible,  straightfor- 
ward, kindly,  the  type  of  Irishman  to  be 
found  in  plenty  among  our  green  fields  and 
wild  hills,  one  whose  example  and  teaching 
will  help  to  build  a  great  nation. 


"THE  LADIN'  MAN  O'  THE  PARISH."* 


GOD  save  ye,  Murty!" 
God  save  ye  kindly,  Matt!" 
"'Tis  fine  weather    we're  getting 
glory  be  to  God!" 
"'Tis,  thanks  be  to  God,  an'  'tis  wanted 
now  for  the  spring  work." 

"'Tis  well  for  him  that  have  spring  work 
to  do,  Murty,"  said  Matt  solemnly. 

"An'  more  shame  for  thim  that  could 
have  it  an'  hasn't!'  said  Murty,  with  a  long- 
continued,  emphatic  shake  of  his  head. 

"Ah!  That's  a  whack  at  myself ,  Murty," 
answered  Matt.  "If  we  wor  all  graspin' 
cratures  like  some  I  know,  the  world  'ud  be 
a  quare  place  to  live  in,  so  it  would." 

"There's  a  big  differ  betune  a  man  mindin' 
his  own  business  an'  bein'  graspin',"  said 
Murty  quietly. 

"An'  there's  a  differ,  too,  betune  the  in- 
terests o'  the  individual  an'  the  ginerality  o' 
the  people.  The  ginerality  is  to  go  before 
all  other  interests,  Murty.  That's  my  prin- 
ciple, an'  by  it  I  have  ever  an'  always  acted, 
an'  will  act!" 

"An'  the  divil  a  much  good  it's  doin' you, 
a  nayther,  Matt,"  answered  Murty,  most 
emphatically. 

"Murty,  I  didn't  expect  this  from  you' — 
I'm  a  man  o'  principle,  an'  I'll  stand  or  fall 
by  my  principle. —  As  a  Disthrict  Councillor, 

*By  Kind  permission  of  Ed.  "Irish  Rosary." 


6 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


Murty,  I  do  my  best  to  keep  down  the  rates 
for  the  people,  an'  I'm  no  man's  inimy  but 
my  own." 

"An'  ye  have  one  inimy  too  many,  Matt, 
a  mhic  o!"  said  Murty,  looking  at  the  other, 
pityingly. 

"Thim's  hard  words  to  a  man  o'  my  stand- 
in,'  Murty  Glynn,"  said  Matt. 

"Amn't  I  only  agreein'  with  yerself,  man 
alive?  Didn't  yerself  sav  the  same  a  second 
ago?" 

"Tell  me  this,  Murty!  Amn't  I  keepin' 
the  rates  down?  Aren't  you,  Murty,  reapin' 
the  benefits  o'  my  labour?  There  y'are, 
enjoyin'  yer  comfort;  enjoyin'  the  fruits  o' 
my  arguin'  an'  fightin',  an'  no  thanks  for 
me,  an'  me  sacrificin'  me  money  an'  earnin' 
for  the  interests  o'  the  commonality  —  so 
I  am?" 

"You  are,  in  troth,  Matt!"  said  Murty, 
with  great  sarcasm.  "You  are,  in  troth, 
sacrificin'  yer  wife's  earnin',  God  help  the 
crature!  an'  takin'  the  bite  out  o'  the 
mouths  o'  your  poor  childre' !  Listen  to 
me,  Matt — I'd  sooner  see  the  rates  trebled 
on  myself  an'  everyone  else,  an'  see  you  a 
sober,  industrious  man,  than  have  no  rates 
to  pay,  an'  see  you  as  you  are,  goin'  every 
other  day  into  that  'Boordroom,'  an'  comin' 
home  in  misfortune  an'  drink!  There  are 
honest  an'  good  min  there,  I  know,  but  there 
are  thim  in  it  that  are  no  service  to  you  or 
me!    Sneer,  if  ye  like,  an'  call  me  tight- 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS. 


7 


fisted  —  as  you  have  done  already  —  but 
I  am  a  happier  an'  more  continted  man  than 
you,  with  all  your  greatness,  for  I  have  for- 
gotten the  smell  an'  the  taste  o'  drink,  an' 
'twill  be  well  for  you,  Matt,  when  you  can 
say  the  same  thing.' 9 

1  'Smart  chat,  faix,"  snapped  out  Matt, 
"an9  a  nice,  sweet  welcome  to  a  neighbour  in 
the  mornin'!  You're  a  frindly  neighbour,  to 
be  sure,  so  ye  are!  But  'tisn't  for  preachin' 
I  come  here,  Murty!" 

'Tm  no  frind,  I  suppose,  because  I  tell  the 
truth?  Troth,  'twould  be  well  for  you,  Matt, 
if  you  heard  less  blatherin'  an'  flattery,  an' 
more  truth.  I  know  well,  sure,  you'd  rather 
I'd  say,  'Sure  everyone  has  his  faults,'  an' 
other  consolemints  o'  the  kind.  That'ud  en- 
courage ye  to  go  down  the  hill  faster,  an'  that 
I  won't  do." 

"Hum!  It  seems  to  me  my  business  is 
done  here  this  mornin'!"  and  Matt  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  turned  up  his  nose,  and  made 
towards  the  gate. 

"God  give  you  sinse  an'  a  sinse  o'  shame 
along  with  it!"  said  Murty,  getting  ready  to 
go  to  work;  and  so  they  parted. 

******* 

Matt  Reardon  went  down  the  road,  in- 
tending to  cross  the  stile  in  the  "Big  Field," 
and  go  home.  The  straight  and,  to  his 
mind,  bitter  words  of  his  neighbour  were  still 
ringing  in  his  ears,  and  they  cut  deeply,  for 


8 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


it  was  seldom  he  was  so  spoken  to.  He  won- 
dered with  himself/ '  What  drove  him  up  to 
talk  to  the  ould  shinflint  at  all?"  And  then 
the  incidents  that  led  up  to  his  visit  — 
whose  object,  by  the  way,  he  had  not  even 
touched  upon  —  passed  through  his  mind. 
So  humiliating,  nay,  even  shocking,  did  the 
whole  appear,  that  he  stood  on  the  road,  his 
legs  stretched  wide  apart,  his  hat  pulled 
down  over  his  left  eye,  and  with  folded  arms 
and  chin  resting  on  his  chest,  looked  steadily 
at  a  point  four  feet  ahead  of  him;  and  then, 
for  at  least  the  sixth  time  that  morning,  re- 
viewed the  whole  situation. 

"Sweet  bad  luck  from  your  soul,  Mrs. 
Hogan,  there  below!"  his  thoughts  rather 
emphatically  began.  "Your  bad  mind  an* 
miserly  heart  is  the  cause  o'  my  downfall 
this  blessed  day!  I'm  here,  so  I  am,  a  frind 
to  the  whole  countryside:  everyone  lookin' 
up  to  me!  one  axin'  me  to  put  a  pump  here, 
another  a  bridge  there,  an'  all  wantin'  me 
to  keep  down  the  rates!  An'  thin,  there's 
gintle  an'  simple  beggin'  me  to  put  my  name 
to  a  'red-ticket'  for  medical  attindance,  an' 
I'm  the  man  that  gives  thim!  I  am,  so  I 
am! — An'  after  all  this  I'm  twice  insulted 
of  a  Monday  mornin,'  almost  before  my  eyes 
are  well  opened  to  the  light  o'  day!  Well, 
well,  well;  to  be  sure!" 

And  then  he  went  on  to  recall  the  incidents 
of  the  morning;  how  he  went  into  Hogan's 
public  house  and  called  for  his  "glass  o'  the 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS. 


9 


besht."  Mrs  Hogan  herself  was  inside  the 
counter,  and  measured  it,  and  then  as  she 
was  shoving  it  towards  him,  asked: 

"I  suppose  you  come  in  to  settle  that  little 
account  with  me,  Mr.  Reardon?" 

"Well,  no,  thin,  ma'am,"  said  Matt,  "I 
didn't  think  there  was  any  great  hurry  with 
it,  ma'am;  an'  besides,  I  didn't  happen  to 
bring  any  money  out  with  me, —  in  fact,  I 
didn't  intind  callin'  in  at  all,  but  just  as  I 
was  passin'  by  the  " 

"Well,  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Hogan,  still  hold- 
ing the  glass,  "you  can  call  this  evenin'  or 
to-morrow  about  the  account,  an'  you're 
going  to  pay  for  this  now,  at  any  rate?" 

"I  will  call  about  the  account,  ma'am," 
said  Matt,  "as  ye  spake  of  it;  but,  as  I  was 
sayin',  I  didn't  bring  even  the  price  o'  the 
drink  with  me  an'  I  comin'  out.  I  was  only 
passin'  the  door  and  I  dropped  in  to   " 

"Oh!  very  well,  Mr.  Reardon,"  she  replied 
stiffly.  "I'm  afraid  I  can't  afford  to  wait 
longer  or  add  any  more  items  to  your  account." 
And  she  took  back  the  glass  from  the  counter. 

Poor  Matt  was  dumfounded.  Had  it 
come  to  this —  "a  district  Councillor,  the 
ladin'  politician  o'  the  parish,"  refused  for 
fourpence  worth  of  liquor?  He  could  not 
speak,  but  contended  himself  with  looking 
vaguely  around  the  shop,  and  then,  hanging 
his  head,  walked  out.  He  felt  thankful,  in- 
deed, for  one  thing;  that  there  were  none  of 
his  neighbours  present  to  witness  his  humili- 
ation. 


10 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


This  incident  it  was  that  led  him  to  con- 
sider his  position.  He  had  no  ready  money, 
not  as  much  as  would  pay  for  his  morning 
glass.  Worse  still,  he  had  no  ready  means 
of  obtaining  ready  money.  His  lands  were 
unstocked ;  his  yard  was  empty  of  pig  or  cow 
or  anything  saleable,  except  his  old  nag  and 
a  few  fowls.  To  sell  the  horse  would  be  to 
deprive  himself  of  the  means  of  attending  the 
"Boardroom"  and  "Monster  Demonstrations/ ' 
so  that  was  out  of  the  question ;  and  the  sale 
of  the  fowl  would  at  most  bring  in  a  few 
shillings,  and,  besides,  would  be  beneath  his 
dignity  as  the  "ladin'  man  o'  the  Parish." 
Having  turned  the  matter  over  and  over  in 
his  mind,  he  at  last  hit  on  one  plan  "for  rais- 
ing the  wind," —  to  set  his  land  and  tide 
over  present  difficulties  with  the  proceeds. 
With  this  object  in  view  he  had  gone  to 
Murty  Glynn,  with  what  result  we  have  al- 
ready seen. 

"Now,  in  the  name  of  all  that's  sinsible, 
what  am  I  to  do?"  he  asked  himself,  as  he 
stood  on  the  road.  "Divil  a  one  I  know  able 
to  take  that  land  but  Murty,  an'  words 
passed  betune  us  before  I  could  even  mention 
it.  'Twould  suit  him,  an'  he'd  take  it,  for 
his  own  is  overstocked,  and  he's  lookin'  for 
a  place  to  put  thim,  the  ways  he  could  till 
more.  Well,  well  to  be  sure!  an'  what  am 
I  to  do  now?"  He  paused  awhile.  "I'd 
better  put  my  principles  in  my  coatpocket," 
he  said,  at  last,  "an'  go  back  to  Murty." 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  11 


He  made  three  or  four  attempts  to  return 
but  every  time  his  resolution  failed  him,  and 
pride  "got  the  upper  hand."    At  last  he 
made  a  bolder  effort  and  walked  back. 
******* 

"God  bless  the  work,  Murty!" 

"An"  you  likewise  !n  said  Murty,  as  he 
looked  up  from  his  work.  To  his  great  sur- 
prise he  beheld  Matt  Reardon  leaning  his 
elbows  on  the  garden  wall,  the  paleness  of 
his  drawn  face  making  his  nose  appear  rud- 
dier than  usual,  and  in  his  watery  eyes  there 
was  a  most  pitiable  look. 

Murty  had  guessed  at  his  last  visit  that 
something  out  of  the  ordinary  was  in  the 
air,  and  had  in  his  own  mind  resolved  on  a 
plan  to  save  this  man  from  himself.  How- 
ever severely  he  might  seem  to  act,  he  did 
so  for  a  good  purpose. 

"I  come  back,"  was  Matt's  bare  state- 
ment. 

"By  dad,  it  seems  so,"  said  Murty. 

"Muiseadh  Murty/'  said  Matt,  "don't  be 
too  hard  on  me." 

"There's  no  one  harder  on  you  than  your- 
self," said  Murty,  and  he  continued  his  work. 

"Murty!"  came  from  over  the  wall. 

"What  is  it,  Matt?"  asked  the  other. 

"I'm  in  trouble,  Murty!" 

"I'm  sorry  to  hear  it,  but  not  surprised," 
said  Murty. 

"Is  that  all?"  Matt  asked. 


12 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


"It  depinds,"  said  Murty. 
There  was  a  pause. 
"Murty!" 
"Well?" 

"Fm —  I'm  —  I'm  broke,  so  I  am!"  said 
Matt,  with  an  effort. 
"Ah!" 

"I  have  a  nice  bit  o'  land,  Murty." 

"You  have,  in  troth,  and  the  divil  a  much 
use  you're  makin'  of  it.  a  nayther,  Matt," 
was  Murty's  answer. 

Another  pause,  and  then: 

"You  have  a  nice  lot  o'  stock,  Murty, 
God  bless  thim!" 

"They're  purty  fair,  thank  God!  an'  Fm 
afeard  I'll  have  to  sell  some  o'  thim  before 
the  right  time,"  said  Murty. 

"That  'ud  be  a  pity,  so  it  would." 

"Well,  I  can't  spoon-feed  thim,  an'  I 
have  no  grass  for  thim."  And  Murty  dug 
savagely  with  the  spade.  Again  there  was 
silence  between  them. 

"Murty!" 

"Well?" 

"You  have  stock  an'  I  have  land. 
'Twould  be  a  pity  if  you  had  to  sell  the  stock. 
Troth  an'  it  would  so.19 

"Arrah!  an'  is  that  what  you  wor  drivin' 
at  all  the  time,"  siad  Murty,  straightening 
himself  and  looking  at  the  other  .  He  had 
guessed  as  much  from  the  beginning,  but  as 
he  wanted  to  humble  Matt,  he  had  refused 
to  help  him  to  make  known  what  false  pride 
made  difficult  to  disclose. 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  13 


'That's  it  now  for  you,"  and  Matt  felt 
relieved  that  even  that  little  was  done. 

"Well  now,  Matt,"  said  Murty,  "come 
'round  by  the  little  gate  beyond,  an'  sit 
down  here  under  the  wall,  an'  we'll  try  to 
make  a  bargain  of  it." 

Matt  did  as  he  was  told,  and  when  he  had 
seated  himself.    Murty  asked  :- 

"Did  ye,  on  your  word  of  honour,  take 
any  drink  to-day,  Matt?" 

"Not  as  much  as  one  tint,  Murty." 

"An'  didn't  I  see  you  comin'  out  o'  Hogan's 
a  while  ago?" 

"You  could,  an'  maybe  you  did."  replied 
Matt. 

"An'  did  you  go  in  an'  out  o'  Hogan's 
without  takin'  drink?"  asked  Murty  in  sur- 
prise. 

"That  I  did"  said  Matt. 
"Thin  wonders  never  will  cease!"  said 
Murty. 

"An'  I  didn't  take  drink,  Murty,  for  I 
wouldn't  get  it." 

"I'm  sorry  you're  so  low,  Matt,  but  'tis 
all  your  own  fault.  An'  I  tell  you  plainly, 
that  instead  o'  settin'  your  land,  an'  havin' 
your  barn,  an'  stables,  an'  cow-house  empty, 
instead  o'  the  roof  o'  your  own  house  lettin' 
the  smoke  out  an'  the  rain  in,  an'  instead  o' 
tiradin'  about  the  country  speechifyin'  an' 
throwin'  away  your  last  pinny  on  thim  that 
don't  care  a  match  for  you.  'twould  be  fitter 
for  you,  Matt,  to  be  mindin'  your  business, 


14 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


an'  thin  things  would  not  be  as  they  are." 

"Murty,  you're  hurtin'  my  feelin's,  an* 
tisn't  many  I'd  let  do  that,  so  it  isn't!" 

"Look  here,  Matt,  we  understand  each 
other.  You  know  there's  no  one  would  be 
willin'  to  take  your  land  but  me,  as  there's 
no  one  but  has  enough  for  what  stock  they 
have.  'Twould  suit  me  well,  an'  I'll  keep 
it  at  any  fair  price  you  name,  if  we  can  agree 
on  the  conditions  o'  sale." 

"I  thank  you,  Murty,  an'  if  the  conditions 
aren't  impossible,  they'll  be  agreed  to  an' 
kept." 

"Come  on  to  the  bargain  so,"  said  Murty. 
"What  are  you  askin'?" 

"Well,  there's  thirty  acres,  an'  six  acres  o' 
the  "callows"  an'  the  two  acres  behind  the 
house.  That's  thirty-eight  acres,  not  count- 
in'  the  garden.  " 

"I  know  every  perch  of  it,  an'  now  say 
your  lowest  price.  I'll  show  you  I'm  not 
the  graspin'  fellow  you  think  me.  I'll  keep 
it  at  your  own  price  —  with  conditions, 
though." 

"'Tis  the  best  bit  o'  land  in  the  six  parishes, 
Murty,  an'  as  I  have  it  cheap,  I  let  you  have 
it  cheap.  What  would  you  say  to  18s.  an 
acre  till  next  March?" 

"I  said  I'd  keep  it  at  your  price  —  with 
conditions,  an'  I'll  not  break  my  word.  We 
musn't  complete  the  sale  now,  for  the  con- 
ditions will  only  come  by  degrees.  The  first 
is,  that  till  I  meet  you  next  Thursday  evenin', 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  15 


not  one  drop  o'  drink  will  pass  your  lips. 
That's  only  three  days  an'  a  half,  an'  I'll 
name  the  rest  an'  complete  the  bargain,  if 
you  do  my  biddin'." 

"Well,  Murty,"  said  Mat  hesitatingly,  "I'd 
like  one  little  dropeen  before  I'd  promise 
that,  for  I'm  not  feelin'  at  all  well  this  morn- 
in'." 

"Not  as  much  as  you'd  put  in  a  midge's 
front  tooth  willyou  get  from  me!"  said  Murty. 

"Well,  now,  I'm  feelin'  bad,  an'  'twould  do 
me  good,"  pleaded  Matt. 

"If  you  as  much  as  taste  a  drop,  Matt, 
don't  talk  any  more  about  lettin'  the  land  to 
me.    The  bargain  '11  be  off!" 

"Och!  Dia  go  deo  linn!  but  that's  hard 
enough.  Howsomever,"  he  added  resigned- 
ly, "I  suppose  there's  no  help  for  it,  an'  I 
promise  not  to  take  any.  Well,  I'll  call  up 
so  on  -" 

"Hould  on,"  interrupted  Murty,  "your- 
self '11  want  the  garden  an'  'two-acre'  field, 
so  keep  thim,  an'  whatever  seed  you  want 
you  can  get  from  me,  an'  we'll  settle  it  again 
whin  I'm  payin'  you  the  rint." 

"I'm  very  thankful  to  you,  Murty,  so  I 
am,"  said  Matt  humbly. 

"As  I  haven't  much  'help'  myself,  maybe 
yourself  an'  the  lads  could  sow  a  few  things 
for  me  in  thim  fields  you  were  preparing  this 
time  twelve  months.  No  one  need  know 
but  'tis  for  yourself  you're  doin'  it,  an'  I'll 
pay  ye  for  the  labour." 


16 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


"Hah!"  said  Matt  with  a  show  of  anger. 
"Whin  a  man's  down  a  foot  is  bet  on  him! 
Do  you  mane  to  say  you'd  make  spailpini 
o'  me  an'  my  childre'  because  I 'm  down  a  bit 
in  the  world  at  present,  Murty?" 

"Look  here,  my  good  man,"  rejoinedMurty, 
"if  that's  how  you're  lookin'  at  things,  re- 
mimber  the  bargain  isn't  made  yet.  Who'll 
know  but  ourselves  that  it  isn't  your  own 
seed  you're  sowin'?  I'm  befrindin'  you,  so 
sind  pride  to  the  divil  an'  put  a  bit  o'  manli- 
ness into  your  heart.  Afraid  o'  what  the 
neighbours  'ud  say  an'  think!  Go  now  an' 
God  speed  you!  Don't  take  a  sup  o'  drink 
till  you  come  back  to  me  a-Thursday  evenin'. 
Do  your  work  like  a  Christian  an'  you'll  be 
better  able  to  talk  whin  you  come." 

After  some  more  arguing: — 

"By  dad,  but  I  will!"  said  Matt  with  de- 
termination. "Good-bye  now  an'  thank  you 
Murty.    You'll  see  I'll  keep  my  word." 

"I'm  trustin'  in  you  fully,  Matt,"  said 
Murty,  and  he  resumed  his  work  as  the  other 
went  out  at  the  little  gate. 

Matt  Reardon  went  home  in  a  rather 
curious  state  of  mind.  He  was  a  bit  mixed 
after  that  conversation  with  Murty  Glynn, 
but  whether  it  improved  or  made  him  any 
more  contented  he  very  much  doubted. 

Anyway  he  had  pledged  himself  to  a  thing, 
and  that  he  would  not  draw  back  from,  and 


ITS  SHADOWS  AND  SUNSHINE. 


17 


Murty  trusted  him  too.  He  went  into  his 
own  yard,  and  taking  a  spade  (rusty  for  want 
of  work)  that  stood  against  the  wall  of  the 
barn,  he  proceeded  to  the  garden,  where  he 
set  about  preparing  a  place  for  cabbage  seed. 
He  had  not  entered  the  house,  nor  told  his 
wife  his  intentions  —  in  truth  his  chief  aim 
now  was  to  keep  himself  occupied  with 
something  so  as  to  keep  the  idea  of  drinking 
in  the  background. 

Mrs.  Reardon,  busy  with  household  cares, 
such  as  they  were,  had  not  noticed  his  coming 
so  when  she  glanced  through  the  back  win- 
dow and  beheld  her  husband  at  work  for  the 
first  time  in  many  months,  she  blessed  her- 
self and  prayed  that  this  might  not  be  a 
passing  fit  of  industry,  but  a  lasting  reform. 

At  1 'dinner- time' '  Matt  came  in  and  pulled 
his  chair  to  the  table.  He  said  nothing  dur- 
ing the  meal,  and  when  it  was  finished  put 
a  "coal  in  his  pipe"  and  returned  to  his 
work  in  the  garden. 

When  the  children  came  from  school,  the 
eldest  boy  asked  the  usual  question: 

"Where  is  he  gone  to-day,  mother ?"  (He 
never  said  "father' '  of  late). 

For  reply  his  mother  brought  him  to  the 
window  that  he  might  see  his  father  sober 
and  hard-working  for  at  least  one  day.  The 
tears  stood  in  the  eyes  of  both,  and  the 
smaller  children  were  gathered  to  where  the 
little  altar  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  stood,  and 
there  they  knelt  and  joined  in  simple  prayer 
for  their  poor  father. 


18 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


The  children  had  done  whatever  foddering 
there  was,  so,  when  Matt  came  in  from  work 
he  had  to  content  himself  with  1  'knocking 
about/'  as  it  were,  to  "look  after  things," 
and  finally  settled  down  to  read  an  old  news- 
paper by  the  fireside.  Even  this  did  not 
keep  away  the  ever-recurring  temptation, 
and  after  a  little  while  he  was  merely  pre- 
tending to  read,  for  he  felt  a  keen  desire  for 
"a  drop  o'  drink."  He  was  kept  fully  oc- 
cupied in  keeping  this  thought  in  restraint. 
At  one  moment  he  would  have  formed  the 
intention  of  borrowing  the  necessary  cash 
and  have  "one  decent  drink/  ■  when  suddenly 
he  remembered  that  his  word  was  pledged 
to  one  who  trusted  him  fully. 

"I'm  a  bad  man,  so  I  am,"  he  said  to  him- 
self again  and  again,  "if  I  can't  keep  from  it 
to-morrow  an'  after,  an'  a  bit  o'  Thursday." 

That  would  finish  the  matter  for  the  time 
beting,  but  soon  the  craving  would  come  on 
as  strong  as  ever. 

"Muiseadh!  the  divil  himself  must  be  in 
the  drink,  an'  may  the  Lord  strengthen  me, 
for  I'm  wake!"  he  would  say,  and  then  the 
tempter  would  suggest,  "Take  one  little  sup, 
sure  no  one  will  know  it,  an'  you  needn't  go 
far  with  it.  One  little  sup  will  do  no  harm 
to  anyone."  But  his  word  was  pledged  to 
not  take  as  much  "as  would  go  in  a  midge's 
tooth,"  "an'  I  won't,  with  the  help  o'  God  — 
till  Thursday  at  laste!"  poor  Matt  would  add 
to  himself.    So  it  went  on  —  temptation, 


"I'M  A  BAD  MAN  SO  I  AM,"  HE  SAID  TO  HIMSELF  AGAIN 
AND  AGAIN. 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS. 


19 


resistance,  craving,  temptation,  resistance, 
till  at  last  he  tired  of  it  all  and,  throwing  the 
paper  aside,  he  said: 

"'Tis  time  for  us  all  to  say  the  Rosary, 
Mary." 

So  they  went  and  prayed. 

On  Tuesday,  while  Matt  was  at  dinner, 
a  parcel  came  from  town  addressed  to  Mrs. 
Reardon.  "It  had  been  ordered  and  paid 
for,"  the  carrier  said. 

"Was  it  you  sint  for  the  tea  an'  sugar  an' 
things,  Matt?"  she  asked. 

Matt  looked  at  them,  blushed  a  little,  and 
replied,  "Go  on  now,  Mary,  isn't  it  all  equal 
whether  I  did  or  no?" 

She  was  satisfied  with  the  ambiguous  re- 
ply; but  he  knew  better,  and  realised  that 
Murty  was  showing  himself  a  sincerely  prac- 
tical friend. 

"He  doesn't  mean  offence,"  he  added  in 
his  own  mind,  "an'  I  know  that.  I'll  make 
him  keep  the  price  out  o'  the  rint,  anyway." 

Thursday  came  and  Matt  rambled  up  to 
Murty's.  There  were  a  few  inside  "at  visit" 
so  he  sat  among  them  awhile  and  smoked 
and  talked  with  them. 

"Matt,"  said  Murty  after  a  time,  "I  have 
a  cow  outside  that  I'm  thinkin'  o'  bringin'  to 
the  fair.  Maybe,  as  you're  a  good  judge, 
you'd  come  out  an'  tell  me  what  I'll  be  ex- 
pectin'  for  her." 

Don't  be  depindin'  too  much  on  my  judg- 
ment, but  such  as  it  is  you're  welcome  to  it," 
and  Matt  stood  up. 


20 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


As  soon  as  they  were  outside,  Murty  asked: 
"Well,  you  kept  from  it,  Matt?" 
"An'  a  hard  job  it  was,  Murty,  I  can  tell 
you." 

"Troth,  I'm  thinkin'  it  was  no  joke.  Come 
over  till  we  look  at  the  cow." 

When  they  were  returning  from  the  cow- 
shed Murty  began  again: 

"Well,  Matt,  before  we  complate  that 
bargain  about  the  land  I  must  ax  you  to  resign 
your  position  on  the  'Boord.'" 

"What?  Is  it  resign  the  councillorship, 
Murty?"  asked  Matt. 

"That's  it  exactly,"  said  Murty. 

"'Tis  out  o'  the  question,  Murty;  'tis  un- 
natural! What  about  the  interests  o'  the 
community?" 

"Interests  be  hanged,"  retorted  Murty, 
"It  must  be  done  or  the  bargain  is  off." 

"An'  who'd  take  my  place?  Who's  fit  to 
represint  the  district,  Murty?" 

"Let  thim  get  who  they  like;  but  faix, 
with  all  your  big  opinion  o'  yourself,  you 
must  rise  out  of  it.  " 

It  took  some  time  to  persuade  Matt  that 
the  country  could  rub  along  without  him. 
(Though  every  citizen  should  serve  his  coun- 
try, not  everyone  need  give  public  service) - 
Finally  however,  he  was  persuaded,  and 
with  Murty,  he  went  to  the  parlour  to  pen 
his  "regrets  that  circumstances  compelled 
him  to  resign  his  membership  of  their  honour- 
ed Board,"  etc.,  etc.,  and  when  the  two  had 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  21 


read  it  over  about  seven  times  it  was  closed, 
stamped,  and  addressed  to  the  clerk  of  the 
Catharmore  Union.  Then  Murty  took  upon 
himself  the  responsibility  of  posting  the  im- 
portant document. 

"That's  done,  an'  well  done,"  said  Murty, 
as  he  put  the  letter  in  his  pocket;  "though 
I'm  afeard  Matt,  we'll  have  another  job 
with  them;  for  as  sure  as  eggs  are  eggs,  an' 
that's  mighty  sure,  thim  comrades  o'  yours'll 
pass  a  grand  'russulution'  regrettin'  your 
notification,  and  beseechin'  you  to  reconsider 
your  decision  for  the  'honour  an'  glory  of 
Ireland  an'  in  the  interest  o'  the  Irish  race 
at  home  an'  abroad;'  an'  they'll  ax  you  to 
return  again  to  thim  as  the  representative  o' 
Clochfada;  but  for  your  life  don't  heed  thim. 
If  you  feel  wake  whin  that  letter  comes,  an' 
come  it  will,  ramble  up  here  to  me,  an'  I'll 
see  they  get  an'  answer." 

"Well,  now  that  'tis  written  "  said  Matt, 
sadly,  "I'm  feelin'  soart  o'  sorry  that  I'm 
resignin',  but  I  won't  draw  back  as  I've  put 
my  name  to  it." 

"Och,  thin  don't  be  a  bit  uneasy,"  said 
Murty.  "Trust  me  for  one  year,  an'  if  you 
don't  think  well  o'  me,  thin  you  can  go  back 
to  thim'' 

"Notwithstandin'  my  feelin's,  I'm  satis- 
fied that  you  intend  what's  good  for  me,  an' 
—  an'  —  an'  I'll  stick  to  your  advice  if  I'm 
able  at  all,  with  the  help  o'  God." 


22 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


jWhen  they  were  parting  at  the  gate,  Matt 
was  about  to  mention  the  parcel  that  came 
from  town,  but  Murty  interrupted  him. 

"Don't  mind  that  for  the  present.  But, 
listen,  this  will  be  in  our  agreement,  that  if 
durin'  the  year  you  taste  a  drop  o'  drink  I'll 
throw  the  land  there  to  you,  an'  you  may  do 
your  choice  thing  with  it."  And  that  was  how 
the  agreement  was  drawn  up. 

During  the  next  couple  of  weeks  Matt 
was  living  a  new  life  —  a  kind  of  stay-at- 
home  life.  As  he  was  not  yet  well  grounded 
in  sobriety  he  did  not  trust  himself  much 
abroad.  He  did  not  often  go  down  even  as 
far  as  Hogan's.  He  of  course,  did  not  enjoy 
this  sort  of  life  very  much  yet,  for  the  con- 
tinous  restraint  was  irksome.  However,  he 
managed  to  get  along  somehow.  The  fer- 
vent prayers  of  wives  and  children  do  a 
great  deal,  and  so  Matt  Reardon  kept  sober. 
%  Murty  was  well  informed  as  to  the  post- 
man's visits  to  Reardon's,  and  was  especially 
attentive  after  "boord-day."  At  last,  on  a 
Tuesday  morning,  he  discovered  that  Matt 
had  received  a  letter.  He  had  no  doubt  but 
that  it  was  the  expected  resolution,  and  was 
hourly  expecting  the  recipient  up  for  advice. 
Matt  did  not  come,  however.  He  must 
not  have  felt  "wake"  about  replying  was 
Murty's  thought.  But  to  make  sure  he  stroll- 
ed down  to  inquire. 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  23 


"God  save  all  here!"  he  said,  as  he  entered 
Reardon's  kitchen. 

"An'  you  likewise !"  Mrs.  Reardon  replied. 
"Ah,  thin'  you're  heartily  welcome,  Murty, 
an'  is  it  yourself  that's  in  it?  Sit  down  to 
the  fire.  Shove  aside,  Johneen"  (to  the  second 
eldest),  "and  make  room!' 

She  knew  Murty's  part  in  the  reform  of 
her  husband,  and  was  grateful. 

"I  won't  be  delayin',  ma'am,  thank  you," 
said  Murty.  Then,  in  a  half -whisper,  "Where 
is  himself?" 

"He  wint  over  to  the  parlour  a  while  ago 
to  write  a  letter.  Sure,  I'll  call  him  out  if 
you  want  to  see  him." 

"I'll  go  in  myself,  ma'am,  if  you  please," 
said  Murty,  and  he  tip- toed  to  the  door, 
opened  it  gently,  and  went  in.  Matt's  back 
was  towards  him,  and  so  intent  was  he  on 
the  letter  that  he  did  not  hear  the  other  enter. 

Murty  looked  over  Matt's  shoulder,  not 
from  curiosity  or  any  dishonourable  motive, 
but  to  see  if  his  surmise  was  correct.  The 
"Resolution"  of  the  Council  was  spread  out 
before  Matt,  who  was  carefully  writing  out 
the  answer: 

"Gentlemen,  in  reply  to  your  generous 
resolution,  I  beg  to  state  that  I  have  recon- 
sidered my  position,  and  intend  to  retain  my 
seat  on  your  honourable  Council  " 

"Well,  well,  well,"  said  Murty,  aloud,  "but 
this  is  terrible!" 


24 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


Matt  nearly  fell  off  the  chair.  Then  when 
he  saw  who  had  spoken,  his  first  impulse  was 
to  brazen  the  thing  out,  and  tell  Murty  he 
was  able  to  mind  himself  and  his  own  busi- 
ness, but  he  recalled  their  agreement  about 
the  land,  and  how  his  word  was  pledged, 
and  thought  better  of  it. 

"By  dad!  Murty,"  he  said,  with  a  forced 
laugh,  "  they  sint  me  a  thunderin'  fine  reso- 
lution, an'  I  couldn't  refuse." 

"Whethen!  You  can  refuse,  an'  you  will, 
too,"  said  Murty  with  conviction. 

"Now,  Murty,  before  you  commit  yourself 
to  that,  read  it.  They  tell  me  the  interests 
o'  the  country  requires  me." 

"Now,  Matt,  we  all  know  there  are  fine, 
honest  min  on  that  board,  and  if  there  wasn't 
'twould  be  a  poor  case.  But,  by  my  soukins! 
there  are  thim  in  it  that  you  must  keep  away 
from!  Stand  by  my  word,  as  you  said  you 
would,  for  one  year,  an'  if  you  find  I'm  leadin* 
you  wrong,  thin  don't  heed  me  any  more." 

After  a  time  it  was  settled  that  another 
letter  should  be  written  to  the  Council,  not 
so  strong  as  Murty  would  like  not  yet  so  com- 
plimentary as  Matt  wished;  it  was  a  sort 
of  compromise,  and  each  had  to  be  satisfied. 
Anyway,  it  suited  its  purpose  —  namely, 
severing  Matt  Reardon's  connection  with 
Catharmore  District  Council,  —  forthe  present 
at  least. 

It  was  on  this  occasion  that  the  agreement 
was  signed  between  them.  Thus  Murty's 
tenancy  depended  on  Matt's  sobriety. 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  25 


Neighbours,  having  little  else  to  talk  a- 
bout,  spoke  of  the  friendship  between  these  two 
men,  and  the  great  change  that  had  taken 
place  in  the  "ladin'  man  o'  the  parish. ".  The 
"ladin'  man"  himself  didn't  seem  to  take 
any  notice  of  their  remarks.  He  now  inter- 
fered very  little,  if  at  all,  in  public  affairs, 
and  was  faithful  to  the  promises  he  had  under- 
taken. If  a  few  mocked  the  "sober  man"  in 
Matt,  what  mattered  it,  since  he  knew,  as 
Murty  told  him,  that  all  men  of  sense  (and 
perhaps  the  mockers  too)  really  thought 
more  highly  of  him  now  than  ever  before. 
So  Matt  was  faithful. 

The  months  passed.  Christmas  and  the 
New  Year  were,  toMatt's  mind,  "the  regu- 
lation fence." 

"'Twill  be  mighty  hard  to  get  over  thim 
safe,"  was  his  frequent  thought.  "But  please 
God  I  won't  tumble!" 

Possibly  the  consciousness  of  his  weakness 
was  his  safeguard,  for  he  took  every  precau- 
tion to  keep  the  danger  at  arm's  length. 
Even  while  yet  it  was  early  November,  he 
was  warning  his  wife  not  to  even  suggest  to 
him  the  idea  o'  goin'  to  the  shop  to  buy  "the 
Christmas."  And  he  would  add,  "let  me  not 
see  as  much  as  the  cork  of  a  bottle  around 
the  place.  If  I  do,  I'll,  I'll  — I'll  do  some- 
thing!" 

He  got  over  both  Christmas  and  New  Year 
safely  and  soberly.  It  was  the  happiest 
Christmas  time  he  had  spent  for  many  a  year, 


26 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


and  he  was  prouder  of  himself  for  it  than  if 
he  had  earned  ten  thousand  pounds  in  an 
hour.  As  soon  as 1  'the  idle  times' '  had  gone  by, 
he  set  about  preparations  for  the  Spring, 
and  he  felt  in  such  a  working  humour  that, 
as  himself  said:  "He  was  within  the  blow  of 
a  wattle  o'  March  before  he  knew  where  he 
was." 

During  all  this  time,  if  any  business  brought 
him  from  home,  he  always  told  "the  Mrs." 
where  he  was  going,  and  when  to  expect  him 
back.  He  invariably  returned  at  the  time 
named,  and  he  had  kept  his  pledge  faithfully. 
Now,  however,  as  March  approached  and 
Murty 's  tenancy  was  expiring,  his  wife 
noticed  a  change  coming  over  him.  He  began 
to  show  signs  of  uneasiness;  going  from  one 
job  to  another,  and  often  standing  up  from 
his  work  to  think  deeply  on  something  or 
other.  She  never  questioned  him  about  what 
was  troubling  him,  though  she  feared  that 
now,  as  things  were  going  so  well  with  them, 
and  as  he  no  longer  needed  Murty  to  keep 
his  land,  he  was  about  to  return  to  his 
old  companionship  and  drink.  It  was  there- 
fore with  awful  foreboding,  that,  one  fine 
morning  in  the  end  of  February,  Mrs.  Rear- 
don  discovered,  when  she  went  to  call  her 
husband  to  breakfast,  that  he  had  gone,  she 
knew  not  whither.  It  was  market  day  in 
Catharmore,  and  she  feared  the  worst. 
For  advice  and  help  she  appealed  to 
Murty. 


l-H 
— 

D 
O 

H 

tfi 

t 
i 

H 

O 
CQ 

— 

— 

o 


C/5 

w 
> 

a 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  27 

"Well,  ma'am,"  said  Murty,  when  he  had 
heard  her  story,  11  there's  no  harm  done  yet 
for  all  we  know,  an'  we  won't  know  till  we 
see  him." 

In  his  heart  he  believed  that  Matt  had 
fallen  and  was  "stotered,  mad  drunk  that 
minnit  in  some  hole  or  corner."  He  promised 
however,  to  seek  the  delinquent  and  bring 
him  back  drunk  or  sober,  so  off  he  started 
on  the  side  car. 

In  town  he  inquired  at  all  Matt's  old 
haunts,  but  could  get  no  trace  of  him. 
"They  didn't  see  a  sight  o'  the  dacint  man 
this  many  a  day,  and  more's  the  pity."  So 
often  was  this  idea  repeated  in  the  replies 
he  got  that  Murty  began  to  get  hopeful,  till 
the  thought  struck  him  that  possibly  Matt, 
to  throw  them  off  the  scent,  had  gone  to 
some  other  town,  and  was  there  foolishly 
spending  his  hard  year's  earnings.  He  was 
about  to  give  up  the  search  in  Catharmore 
when  he  happened  across  a  neighbour  who 
had  seen  the  object  of  his  search  hastening 
down  Abbey  Street  "airly  enough  in  the 
day. 

Thither  went  Murty  with  all  speed.  As 
he  was  passing  the  church  something  sug- 
gested to  him  to  go  in  and  say  a  prayer. 
Going  in  at  one  side  of  the  porch,  to  his 
surprise  he  beheld  Matt  coming  out  at  the 
other,  and  the  latter,  not  suspecting  that 
anyone  was  listening,  was  speaking  the 
thoughts  that  filled  his  mind: 


28 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


"That's  done,  so  it  is,  an'  thank  God  for 
it!  'Twas  worth  comin'  all  the  way  for  an' 
waitin'  all  the  mornin'  here.  Och!  But 
Father  Peter  is  the  grand  man.  He  made 
a  great  job  o'  me.  May  the  Lord  reward 
him!  'Stand  by  God,'  says  he,  'an'  God'll 
stand  by  you/  An'  I  will,  with  the  help  o' 
His  holy  grace.' ' 

He  sprinkled  himself  copiously  with  holy 
water,  and,  going  out  the  door,  continued: 

"The  grace  o'  God  be  with  me  always. 
Amin.  An'  I  must  hurry  home  now  or 
herself 11  be  uneasy;  an'  as  for  Murty"— 
and  he  laughed  softly  to  himself,  and  was 
gone.  Murty,  hidden  by  the  half-open  door, 
had  heard  without  being  seen. 

"God  forgi'  me  for  thinkin'  bad  o'  you, 
Matt,"  he  said  when  his  friend  went  out; 
and  then  he  too,  entered  the  church. 

Matt  Reardon  was  footing  it  home  as  fast 
as  he  could  when  Murty  overtook  him. 

"Hello!  Matt,  you're  goin'  home  airly." 

"An'  I  can  say  the  same  to  you,  Murty," 
said  Matt.  "You  hadn't  much  business  in 
town?" 

"No  thin,,  I  hadn't,"  said  Murty.  "But 
sit  up  an'  we'll  be  gettin'  along  faster.  Ay, 
faix,  that's  better.  Troth,  thin,  Matt,  to 
tell  you  the  truth,  such  business  as  I  had 
could  do  without  me" — and  he  told  about  his 
suspicions  and  the  search  he  had  made — " 
"an'  sure,"  he  concluded,  "I  axed  God  to 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  29 


pardon  me  for  judgin'  you,  Matt,  an'  I'm 
sure  yourself  won't  think  much  the  worse  o' 
me?" 

"Arrah,  stop,  man,"  said  Matt.  "I  knew 
well  ye'd  suspect  me,  an'  that's  natural. 
But,  ye'see,  I  was  thinkin'  this  long  time  how 
much  better  I  am  without  drink  than  with  it, 
so  I  said  to  meself  I'd  make  a  soart  o'  big 
confession  o'  my  life  an'  start  fresh.  I 
couldn't  get  myself  to  talk  o'  that  to  anyone, 
so  I  sloped  away,  unknownt,  this  mornin\ 
Faix,  Murty,  but  I  was  thinkin'  'twould  be 
a  terrible  hard  job,  but  sure,  Father  Peter 
took  me  like  you'd  take  a  child,  an'  'twas 
a  pleasure  to  hear  him  settlin'  everything 
for  me,  an'  puttin'  thim  aside  for  ever.  'Now 
my  dear  son,'  says  he,  'y°u'll  begin  once  more 
on  a  clean  sheet  o'  paper.  Every  day  o' 
your  life'll  be  a  line  o'  your  handwriting  an' 
let  us  see,'  says  he,  'that  whin  you  look  back 
in  a  year's  time  there'll  be  neither  blot  not 
stain  on  it,  an'  that  your  Ts'  '11  be  dotted  and 
your  'tV  crossed.'  An,'  Murty,  I'm  as  happy 
as  the  day  is  long  —  troth,  I  am  sol" 

"Go  on  our  that!"  said  Murty  to  the  horse. 
He  could  say  no  more,  and  they  were  silent 
till  they  reached  home. 


THE  LONELY  SENTINEL  OF  SLIEVE 
BAN". 


1HAD    been   caught  in  the  rain.  The 
nearest  house  was  Murty  Glynn's, 
and  I  hastened  to  it. 

"Good  evening  Father/'  said  Murty  as 
I  entered,  "and  you're  heartily  welcome! 
That's  a  very  sudden  change  in  the  weather, 
glory  be  to  God!" 

"Good  evening,  Murty,"  I  returned,  "and 
thank  you.  That  change  is  so  sudden  that 
I'm  caught  without  overcoat  or  umbrella." 

"Well,  you  have  shelter  anyhow,  Father, 
foi  as  long  as  ever  you  like.  I'm  glad, 
since  it  come  at  all,  that  it  come  on  you  here 
and  drove  you  into  my  home?" 

"You  certainly  pay  me  a  nice  compliment. 
— Ah!  Good  evening,  Mrs.  Glynn,  and  how  are 
you?"  Having  seen  my  approach  she  had 
retired  'to  do  herself  up'  and  now  reentered 
the  kitchen,  a  smile  of  true  kindliness  light- 
ing up  her  pleasant  face. 

"You're  very  welcome,  indeed.  Father!" 
she  said  as,  with  a  most  graceful  courtesy, 
she  took  my  hand.  "I'm  glad  you  didn't 
get  much  o'  the  rain.  Won't  you  take  a 
seat?"  She  wiped  the  chair  with  her  apron 
and  pushed  it  towards  me.  "They  didn't 
come  home  from  the  meadow  yet,"  she  went 
on,  alluding  to  the  other  members  of  the 
family;  "they're  all  lindin'  a  hand  to-day  as 

By  kind  permission  of  ed .  "Irish  Packet." 


32 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


they  expected  to  finish  with  the  hay,  but 
in  troth,  I'm  afraid  the  wet  overtook  thim 
before  they  were  finished.  Sure  Murty 
only  come  in  a  whileen  ago  to  do  the  'fod- 
derin.'  But  what  am  I  doin?'  You'll  take  a  cup 
o'  tay  along  with  us,  Father,  an'  I'll  have  the 

kittle  singin'  in  a  minute.  Run,  Murty, 

an'  bring  in  a  can  o'  fresh  wather." 

Murty  threw  an  overcoat  loosely  over  his 
shoulders  and  took  the  can. 

"Tisn't  hard  to  get  it  this  evenin,'"  he 
said  as  he  went  out  the  door. 

My  mild  request  that  she  should  not 
trouble  herself  about  me  did  not  affect  Mrs. 
Glynn.  She  seemed  not  to  hear  and  cer- 
tainly did  not  heed,  for  she  trotted  about  the 
house,  now  putting  great  sods  of  turf  on  the 
fire,  now  spreading  the  snow  white  table 
cloth  and  arranging  the  tea  things  with  care 
and  taste. 

"Tis  a  terrible  down  pour,"  said  Murty 
laying  the  can  near  the  hearth,  "'tis  the  same 
as  if  you  were  spillin'  it  out  of  a  sieve." 

As  he  was  hanging  his  dripping  hat  and 
coat  on  a  peg  behind  the  door,  a  vivid  flash 
of  lightening  dazzled  us  and  a  moment  or 
two  later  a  terrific  peal  of  thunder  rolled  across 
the  heavens.  We  blessed  ourselves  accord- 
ing to  the  good,  old  custom. 

"May  the  Good  Lord  save  us  an'  every 
one  from  all  harm!"  said  Mrs.  Glynn,  "But 
that  was  terrible  entirely." 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  33 


"It  was  so, 99  said  Murty,  "an'  what  harm 
but  that  unfortunate  crature  is  above  on  the 
hill  there  in  the  height  of  it  all.  Maybe  the 
thunder  'ud  dhrive  him  home,  though  I'm 
thinkin'  it  won't  for  it's  worse  an'  worse  he's 
gettin'  every  day." 

"God  give  him  sinse,  an'  isn't  itthequare 
notion  he  got  into  his  head,  Father?"  said 
Mrs.  Glynn. 

"Of  whom  are  you  speaking,  Mrs.  Glynn?" 
I  inquired,  11  who  would  be  mad  enough  to 
remain  under  that  rain  without  cause.?" 

"Sure  ould  Domnall  Brady  spinds  every 
evenin'  on  that  hill,  Father,"  Murty  ans- 
wered for  her.  "But  I  forgot  you're  not  long 
enough  here  yet  to  know  Domnall.  Come 
over  here  to  the  door  till  I  show  him  to  you. — 
That's  Slieve  Ban,  the  hill  over  there  for- 
ninst  us. —  Now  look  at  him  an'  he  standin' 
on  top  o'  the  coillean  o'  stones  shadin'  his 
eyes  with  his  hand  tryin'  to  get  a  glimpse  o' 
the  ocean.  He'll  get  no  glimpse  of  it  now 
for  'tis  a  good  few  miles  an'  can  only  be  seen 
on  a  clear  day.  But  sure  what  does  poor 
Donnall  care?  He'll  stay  there  now  till  the 
sun  sets  takin'  an  odd  course  round  to  warm 
himself,  and  thin  leanin'  on  his  ould  pike 
handle  watchin'  for  what  he  never' 11  see. 
Towards  night  fall  he'll  go  home  an'  sit 
by  himself  polishin'  the  rusty  ould  pike  that 
belonged  to  his  grandfather,  an'  he  won't 
have  candle  nor  lamp  to  light  him,  but  only 
the  flames  o'  the  fire  jumpin'  up  the  chimney 


34 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


an'  makin'  the  shadows  dance  on  the  bare 
walls  around  him.  Thin  whin  he  gets  tired 
o'  that,  he'll  rest  his  elbows  on  his  knees  an' 
put  his  two  hands  together  an'  go  dhramin,' 
away  for  hours.  But  come  back  from  the 
door,  Father,  an'  if  you  care  to  hear  about 
Domnall,  I'll  tell  you  his  story  while  you're 
takin  the  tay  an'  watin'  for  the  rain  to  stop." 

I  expressed  my  great  willingless  and  delight 
to  listen,  and  then  he  told  me  the  story. 

I  give  it,  as  well  as  I  remember  it,  in  the 
quaint  style  of  Murty  himself: 

"God  be  with  ould  times !"  he  began, 
"They  wor  hard  times  sure  enough  on  some 
but  they  could  be  worse.  Glory  be  to  God 
that  the  hradest  days  are  past  and  gone! — 
Domnall  is  an  ould  man  now,  Father,  but 
there  was  a  time  in  it  an'  he  was  as  hardy  a 
boy  as  you'd  find  in  a  day's  walk.  That 
was  in  the  sixties  "when  his  poor  mother — 
God  rest  her  soul !  lived  with  him  in  the  house 
he's  livin'  in  now  by  himself  over  in  Dun- 
namblath.  Sure  this  side  o'  the  parish  wor 
as  continted  an'  happy  as  the  day  is  long,  for 
ould  Kevin  O'Neill  never  pressed  thim  for 
the  rint  in  bad  years  an'  gave  his  tenants 
every  fair  play,  an'  signs  in  him,  he  had  a 
funeral  that  ud  reach  from  here  to  Tubber  na 
Miasg. —  But  faix  it  wasn't  so  with  the 
Heavney  tinants!  They  had  to  pay  up  to 
the  day,  an'  it  was  by  great  scrapin'  entirely 
they  ever  managed  to  put  the  rint  to- 
gether. 


dhramin;  dhramin,  by  his  lonesome  fireside 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  35 

Parkbeag  was  jist  outside  the  demesne  wall 
and  didn't  the  ould  divil  take  it  into  his  head 
that  it  should  be  inside  it.  He  said  the  land 
was  too  good  for  thim  that  had  it,  so  he  began 
transplants  thim  all  over  to  the  "Carrai- 
geens"  where  there  wasn't  as  much  as  would 
feed  a  snipe  with  any  decency,  let  alone  a 
village  o'  hungry  Christians. 

That  was  bad,  but  it  could  be  worse,  an' 
worse  it  soon  was.  In  the  new  places  they 
got  the  tinants  couldn't  pay  a  copper  o' 
rint  at  all  to  Heavney,  an'  he  started  evictin' 
thim  out  of  a  face.  They  wor  in  despair, 
the  creatures,  but  what  could  they  do? 
They  might  as  well  be  tryin'  to  stop  the  tide 
with  a  hay-fork  as  tryin'  to  move  ould  Heav- 
ney. SHe'd  do  what  he  liked  with  his  own,  an' 
he  did. 

One  day  it  come  to  the  eviction  o'  Tim 
Loftus.  Poor  Tim  was  put  out  of  a  nice 
tidy  little  farm  an'  sint  up  among  the  rocks. 
His  ould  heart  was  nearly  crushed  with  the 
change  and  now  he  was  broken  entirely  to 
see  himself  an'  his  only  daughter  without 
house  or  home  of  their  own  an'  depindin'  on 
others  for  a  roof  to  cover  thim.  Mary 
Loftus  was  a  fine  handsome  girl,  she  was  so; 
an'  it  was  small  wonder  that  Domnall  Brady 
had  set  his  heart  on  her  an'  intended  to  make 
her  his  wife.  When  they  wor  put  out  o' 
their  nice  farm  and  sent  to  the  "carraigeens" 
he  seemed  to  think  more  than  ever  of  Mary, 
but  they  wor  in  no  hurry  about  the  marriage, 


36 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


for  ould  Tim  was  sort  o'  proud  an'  was  afraid 
that  if  he  had  no  fortune  to  give  with  Mary, 
people  'ud  say  it  was  out  o'  charity  Domnall 
married  her.  So  day  by  day  it  was  put  off, 
an'  things  wor  gettin'  darker  an'  darker,  till 
at  last,  as  I  told  you,  Tim  an'  the  daughter 
found  themselves  homeless  on  the  roadside. 

Domnall  was  lookin'  on  at  the  eviction  an' 
there  was  such  sorrow  in  his  heart  to  see  his 
Mary  in  trouble  that  in  place  o'  goin'  to 
help  her,  he  got  someway  stupefied,  an' 
stood  there  like  a  statue  without  as  much  as 
a  stir  out  o'  him.  And  whin  f rinds  o'  the 
Loftuses  brought  the  father  an'  daughter 
away  writh  thim,  Donnall  still  stood  there 
watchin'  the  fire  eatin'  away  the  little  cabin 
that  a  while  before  was  her  home.  Whin  the 
crowd  was  movin'  off,  he  saw  the  land  agent 
over  from  him,  an'  at  once  he  got  life  an' 
movement.  He  rushed  over  at  him  an' 
only  for  a  few  o'  the  neighbours  caught  him 
in  time  tisn't  known  what  might  happen. 
Though  they  could  stop  himself  they  couldn't 
stop  his  tongue  an'  he  said  things  about  the 
agent  an'  landlord  that  a  wise  man  should 
not  say.  Sure  there  wore  many  there  that 
took  notice  o'  his  words  an'  they  wor  no 
frinds  oJ  the  poor  man,  an'  faix,  wild  talk 
could  do  a  lot  o*  harm  in  thim  days. 

A  few  weeks  later  George  Heavney  was 
comm'  home  from  the  hunt  an'  jist  as  he  was 
passin'  the  turn  above  his  own  '  'grand-gate' ' 
two  bullets  come  whizzin'  out  to  him  from 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS. 


37 


behind  the  wall.  They  didn't  hit  him  — , 
I'm  thinkin'  'tis  few  o'  thim  boys  ever  in- 
tinded  to  kill  anyone  —  an'  George  come 
home  safe,  but  he  got  a  fright  that  didn't 
serve  him  nor  thim  that  it  was  meant  to 
serve. 

"I'll  have  satisfaction  out  o'  someone," 
says  he,  an'  off  he  sent  for  police  an'  put 
them  scourin'  the  country  for  arms  an'  such. 
He  suspected  Domnall  Brady,  though  he 
wasn't  a  tinant  o'  his  at  all,  but  he  remim- 
bered  what  he  said  to  the  agent  the  day  Tim 
Loftus  was  evicted.  Sure  the  boy  was  as 
innocent  o'  firin'  the  shots  as  a  weeney  ba- 
been  but  he  had  to  prove  that  yet.  The 
police  went  up  to  search  his  house  an'  arrest 
himself  on  suspicion,  When  they  went  in, 
Domnall  was  restin'  himself  after  the  day, 
and  his  mother  was  by  the  fireside  sittin'  on 
an  ould  box.  Och!  sure,  'tis  Domnall  that 
was  fond  o'  that  mother!  He  wouldn't  be 
out  at  night  from  the  house  for  the  whole 
world,  but  would  stay  within  to  keep  her' 
company.  She  was  ould  the  crature  an' 
deaf  an'  stupid,  an'  he'd  be  afraid  anything 
would  happen  her  while  he'd  be  away,  ex- 
cept he'd  get  Bridgid  Carrol  or  someone 
to  stay  with  her.  When  he  saw  the  police 
comin'  in,  he  knewr  there  was  trouble  in  store 
for  him,  but,  in  troth,  'twasn't  of  himself 
he  was  thinking,  but  of  his  mother.  She'd 
miss  him  sorely,  if  he  had  to  go  with  the 
peelers.    There  was  no  fear,  but  the  neigh- 


38 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


bours  would  take  good  care  of  her,  but  sure, 
they  would  not  take  the  cold  sorrow  out  of 
her  ould  heart, 

In  kem  the  police,  told  their  business  an' 
read  their  warrant. 

"Well,"  said  Domnall,  "I  suppose  there's 
no  help  for  it,  but  'tis  a  hard  case.  How 
will  I  be  able  to  explain  it  to  that  crature  by 
the  fireside?  She  doesn't  understand  what's 
goin'  on  around  her." 

"You  can  try  to  drive  it  into  her  head 
while  we're  searchin'  the  house,"  said  the 
sergeant  roughly. 

Domnall  gave  a  look  at  him  but  said  no- 
thing. He  kept  sittin'  on  the  edge  o'  the 
table  with  his  chin  on  his  hands  an'  he  lookin' 
mournfully  at  the  ould  woman.  She  didn't 
heed  what  was  happenin'  at  all;  I  doubt  if 
she  knew  there  wor  strangers  in  the  house, 
or  that  there  was  any  danger  hangin'  over 
her  only  son. 

One  policeman  stood  beside  him  while  the 
others  searched  high  and  low,  within  an' 
without,  but  they  found  nothing  of  any  harm. 
They  took  down  the  delf  o'  the  dresser  in 
the  kitchen  an'  turned  the  bit  o'  furniture 
o'  the  rooms  upside  down  but  nayther  gun 
nor  powder  nor  shot  was  to  be  got. 

"Nothing  to  be  seen  here,"  says  a  big 
burly  fellow,  "he'stoo  knowin'  for  us,  an'  has 
no  incriminatin  circumstance,  or  otherwise, 
about  the  place." 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS. 


39 


"Hould  hard  a  minute !"  says  the  sergeant, 
1 1  Did  you  search  that  box  the  ould  woman  is 
sittin'  on? — Search  that  Flanagan!  These 
lads  are  damn  knowin!" 

"Aisy  done,  sir,"  says  Flanagan,  with  a 
laugh,  "Aisy  done,"  An'  he  gave  the  end  o' 
the  box  a  kick;  maybe  'twas  by  way  of  a 
joke  an'  maybe  it  wasn't  I  don't  know,  but 
anyway  the  boords  scattered  an'  poor  Cait 
Brady  was  sprawlin'  on  the  floore.  That 
was  more  than  Domnall  could  stand  an'  he 
would  be  no  man,  if  he  didn't  do  what  he  did, 
Father.  He  stood  up  o'  one  leap,  an'  he 
struck  that  policeman  betune  the  two  eyes, 
an'  the  cowardly  divil  fell  down  like  a  stump 
of  a  stick.  Before  the  poor  boy  could  lift 
his  mother,  the  sergeant  was  a-top  o'  him, 
an'  thin  the  other  constables  jumped  on  him; 
Domnall  played  "nine-pins"  with  thim  all 
for  a  while,  an'  struck  thim,  an'  lashed  thim, 
an'  kicked  thim  around  the  house.  But  it 
was  an  unequal  fight,  an'  they  overcame, 
him  in  the  ind,  an'  marched  him  out.  He 
looked  back  as  they  dragged  him  from  the 
doore  an'  he  saw  his  poor  mother  tryin'  to 
rise  from  the  ground,  an'  as  he  looked  she 
fell  agin,  an'  began  to  cry  an'  rub  her  poor 
ould  wrist  for  someone  stood  on  it  in  the 
tussle.  There  was  a  tightenin'  at  his  heart, 
an'  the  blood  rushed  to  his  head  an'  all  a 
son's  love  an'  veneration  for  a  kind  an'  good 
mother  came  on  him  at  once.  He  struggled 
to  go  back  to  her  but  they  held  him  tight  an' 


40 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


hurried  him  off ;  an'  he  wint  down  the  boith- 
rin  with  a  load  o'  crushin'  sorrow  on  him, 
an'  the  bitter  tears  blindin'  him  that  didn't 
lave  him  able  to  raise  his  head  nor  spake  a 
word. 

Well,  Father,  to  make  a  long  story  short 
he  was  brought  before  the  magistrates,  and 
remanded  to  the  Assizes  without  bail.  At 
the  Assizes,  for  want  of  evidence,  he  was  ac- 
quitted, o'  the  charge  o'  shootin'  but,  sure, 
the  poor  fellow  got  six  months  "for  assaultin' 
the  police  in  the  discharge  o'  their  duty!" 

Thim  wor  the  six  long,  hard,  weary  months 
on  him,  for  as  'twas  seldom  any  of  us  had 
business  in  town  where  the  jail  was,  so  Domnall 
only  heard  from  home  a  couple  o'  times  in 
the  beginnin'.  Thim  wor  the  six  long  weary 
months  on  him  to  be  sure!  If  we  had  the 
good  news  to  tell  him  always,  we'd  spare  no 
trouble  to  let  him  have  it,  but  sure  there  wor 
the  dark  clouds  o'  misfortune  coram'  on,  an' 
no  one  had  the  heart  to  be  the  bearer  of  ill 
tidin's. 

"Misfortunes  never  come  alone"  as  the 
ould  sayin'  is,  an'  'tis  time  enough  Domnall 
would  know  what  the  second  one  was.  He 
was  miserable  enough  as  he  was  without 
addin'  to  his  troubles. 

The  months  passed  by  somehow;  an'  one 
day  as  I  was  walkin'  down  the  road,  who 
should  be  comin'  across  the  fields  from  the 
direction  of  his  own  house,  but  Domnall? 
Well,  Father,  I  was  a  great  frind  o'  his,  an' 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS,  41 


still  an'  all,  if  I  could  convainyiently  do  it, 
I'd  avoid  meetin'  him  that  time  at  laste; 
but  he  saw  me  an'  called  me  over  to  him  an1 
came  towards  me. 

I  wint  to  meet  him  too,  an'  welcomed  him 
home  as  best  I  could.  He  was  very  tired  an' 
sad  lookin',  an'  I  wondered  did  he  know  it 
already.  He  stared  at  me  for  a  whileen  as 
though  expectin'  me  to  spake  agin,  an' 
two  or  three  times  his  own  lips  moved,  but 
not  a  word  came.  At  last  he  took  courage  an' 
axed  me  about  her. 

'Tell  me,  Murty"  says  he,  stoppin'  be- 
tween every  two  words,  "Tell  me,  Murty, 
what's  the  meanin'  of  it?  I  wint  over  to  the 
house  whin  I  came  an'  I  found  the  door 
locked  before  me.  I  broke  the  lock  an' 
wint  in  an'  she  wasn't  in  it,  an'  the  hearth 
was  cold  an'  the  place  was  untidy  an'  neglec- 
ted an'  silent.  Oh!  Murty,  for  God's  sake! 
what's  the  meanin'  of  it  at  all,  at  all?" 

"Domnall,  a  mhiurnin!"  says  I,  "'Twas  bad 
enough  you  to  be  in  jail  without  makin'  it 
harder  on  you.  If  I  thought  it  better  for 
you,  I'd  have  gone  in  head  straight  an'  told 
you.  Sure,  Domnall,  I  left  you  in  ignorance 
for  your  own  sake.    God's  holy  Will  be  done. 

"Ah!  thin"  says  poor  Domnall  in  a  broken 
hearted  sort  of  way,  "She's  gone!"  An'  not 
a  word  more  out  of  him.  Nayther  praise  nor 
blame  had  he  for  me. 

"She's  gone!"  says  I  "an'  may  the  Good 
Lord  comfort  her  son,  an'  give  her  rest  an' 
happiness!" 


42 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


He  turned  from  me  with  the  big  tears 
runnin'  down  his  manly  face,  a  sorrowful 
look  in  his  eyes,  an'  he  walked  away.  'Twas 
the  great  love  for  his  poor  mother  that  was 
on  him  an'  she  was  dead  an'  gone  from  him. 
Whin  he  was  a  bit  away  from  me  he  stood  an' 
come  back  agin  to  where  myself  was  standin' 
watchin'  him. 

"Murty,"  says  he  "  I  forgot  in  my  sorrow 
to  thank  you  for  doin'  what  you  thought  was 
best.  But  I'd  rather  have  known  it  before 
I  came  home/' 

"An"  you  would  know  it  too,  Domnall," 
says  I,  "if  I  knew  the  day  you  wor  coming 
for  I  intended  to  go  in  to  the  town  to  meet 
you,  an'  break  it  to  you," 

"Sure  'tis  the  kindness  I'd  expect  from  you" 
says  he,  "but  it  can't  be  helped  now.  I 
have  something  else  to  ax  you,  Murty;  would 
you  tell  Mary  that  I'm  not  feelin'  able  to  see 
her,  an'  spake  to  her  yet  awhile,  an'  tell  her 
to  be  patient  with  me  till  the  first  o'  this 
storm  is  over.  I'll  go  up  to  see  her  myself 
whin  I'm  well  enough  to  do  it,  an'  sure  she 
knows  how  I  must  feel  an'  will  respect  my 
wishes.  It  isn't  want  o'  frindship  that's 
keepin'  me  an'  she'll  understand  that  too." 

"That  I'll  do  an'  welcome,  Domnall," 
says  I,"  Maybe  the  great  sorrow  will  soon 
wear  off  o'  you  an'  you'll  be  cheerful  enough 
in  a  couple  o'  weeks.  She's  better  off  where 
she's  gone,  Domnall,  so  don't  be  too  down- 
hearted." 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS,  43 


He  shook  his  head  sadly,  an'  wint  away  agin 
from  me,  an'  thin  he  crossed  the  stile  an'  over 
with  him  by  Ned  Brogan's  callows  towards 
the  graveyard  where  his  mother  rested, — 
I  heard  a  lot  o'  this  afterwards,  sir, —  an'  he 
knelt  on  her  grave,  an'  said  his  rosary  for  her. 
'Twas  meself  that  found  him  there,  an' 
brought  him  with  me  from  the  place.  He 
wouldn't  let  me  go  beyond  the  chapel  with 
him;  an'  so  I  came  home,  an'  he  wint 
off  to  his  own  cold,  comfortless  house, 
an'  started  at  once  to  tidy  it,  an'  put 
things  into  some  shape;  sure  we'd  have  it 
ready  an'  all  before  him  but  we  thought  he'd 
stay  with  one  o'  the  neighbours  for  a  few  days 
but  he  would  have  his  own  wray.  'Til  sleep 
in  my  own  little  house."  says  he, —  an'  so 
he  did. 

Next  day  he  started  to  work  on  his  little 
holdin'  o'  land; — we  had  the  crops  sown  for 
him  while  he  was  in  jail, —  an'  thin  he  kept 
by  himself  all  day  an'  didn't  come  near  any 
of  us.  From  that  day  forward  his  first  act 
o'  the  mornin'  ud  be  to  go  over  to  Killenda 
an'  visit  his  mother's  grave.  He  began  to 
live  a  silent  lonely  life,  an'  no  matter  if  we 
told  him  forty  times  a  day  to  cheer  up,  he'd 
pay  us  no  heed.  He  was  uneasy  like  an' 
the  tratement  he  got  in  jail  along  with  the 
death  o'  his  mother  must  have  upset  his  mind 
some  way  for  whin  any  of  his  ould  companions 
wint  to  him,  he's  lave  them,  an'  run  off  by 
himself  at  the  first  chance,  he  got. 


44 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


Well,  we  all  got  out  o'  troublin  him  in  the 
ind  an'  let  him  have  his  own  way  till  such 
time,  as  we  thought  he'd  be  himself  again. 
But,  sure,  a  mhuirnin  o1!  he  was  gettin' 
stranger  an'  stranger  every  day.  Mary 
Loftus,  the  one  girl  in  the  whole  world  he 
ever  cared  for,  was  livin'  with  her  uncle, 
Martin  Cunain,  beyant  in  Tubber  na  miasg 
an'  she  met  Domnall  every  evenin'  whin  she'd 
be  comin'  from  milkin'  the  cows;  but  sure, 
an'  ever  he  would  only  look  at  her  an*  pass 
on.  That  same  itself  he  wouldn't  do  later 
on;  he'd  go  his  own  way  an'  wouldn't  look 
at  the  side  o'  the  road  she'd  be  on.  You'd 
think  by  his  action  she  was  a  stranger  he 
never  before  laid  eyes  on.  An'  even  whin 
ould  Tim  Loftus  died  —  God  rest  his  sowl! — 
Domnall  didn't  go  next  or  nigh  the  "corpse* 
house"  nor  the  funeral  but  to  work  with  him, 
mindin'  no  one,  carin'  for  no  one,  slobberin' 
away  on  that  bit  o'  land  he  has  an'  payin' 
the  daily  visit  to  his  mother's  grave. 

He  was  goin'  on  in  this  kind  of  a  way  for 
a  fair  while,  an'  breakin'  poor  Mary  Loftus's 
heart,  for  the  crature  thought  'tis  vexed 
with  herself  he  was,  an'  she  didn't  know  for 
what;  but  myself  saw  well  enough  that  he 
was  quare  in  the  head  an'  may  be  if  she  was 
out  o'  sight  for  a  time  'twould  do  either  o' 
thim  no  harm.  I  tould  her  that  as  kindly  as 
I  could,  an'  she  was  cryin'  an'  cryin'  till  I 
thought  the  eyes  ud  melt  out  o'  her  head. 
But  she  took  my  advice  as  well  by  what  I 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  45 


put  to  her,  as  that  she  didn't  like  somehow  to 
be  depindin'  too  long  on  the  uncle.  So  off 
with  the  poor  girleen  to  America  to  earn  her 
livin'  an'  'twas  a  hard  thing  that  she  had  to 
go  out  to  the  wide,  wide  world  all  alone,  an' 
knowin'  nothin'  o'  it  but  what  she  learned 
at  the  market  in  Gork  or  Athenry,  God  help 
us,  Father,  an'  sure  that  wasn't  much!  She 
never  profitted  on  the  side  beyant;  she  lost 
her  health  with  hard  work,  an'  thin  with 
strugglin'  an'  strivin  not  to  give  in  she  lost 
it  worse  an'  worse.  At  last  she  could  stand 
it  no  longer  an'  she  came  home  to  us  weary, 
an'  tired,  an'  spint  an'  broken  in  health  an' 
body. 

Domnall  was  the  same  as  she  left  him,  a 
stranger  to  everyone  an'  everyone  a  stranger 
to  him.  But  Alary  usedn't  to  meet  him 
this  turn  an'  she  comin'  from  the  milkin', 
for  she  wasn't  able  to  do  anything.  She  was 
laid  up  as  soon  as  she  come  home,  an'  in  a 
fortnight  from  landin'  she  was  cold,  an' 
dead. 

We  wor  all  above  at  the  wake,  whin  who 
wTalks  in  to  us  but  Domnall?  Without  a 
word  to  anyone,  he  wint  to  the  doore  o'  the 
room  where  she  was  "laid  out,'  an'  kneelin' 
down  accordin'  to  custom,  said  a  prayer. 
In  with  him  thin  an'  down  he  sits  among 
the  people  there.  He  didn't  spake  a  word 
to  anyone  for  a  long,  long  time,  but  kept 
starin'  and  starin'  at  the  corpse.  In  the 
ind  of  an  hur  or  so  he  turns  to  Matt  Reardon 
that  was  sittin'  next  him  an'  says: 


46 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


"Tis  very  like  Mary  Loftus  that's  in  it!" 
"Sure,  Domnall,"  says  Matt,"  it  is  poor 
Mary!" 

Domnall  didn't  say  another  word  but 
kept  on  lookin'  at  her  till  morning  now  an' 
agin  wrinklin'  his  forehead  as  if  tryin'  to 
remimber  something.  By  degrees  the  peo- 
ple left  an'  wint  home,  an'  whin  the  darkness 
was  risin'  there  wor  very  few  there.  Dom- 
nall still  remained,  however,  an'  just  as  day 
was  breakin'  from  the  East,  an'  the  light 
was  comin'  in,  he  got  up,  wint  over  to  the 
bedside,  an'  looked  at  her  face,  an'  thin,  he 
gintly  stroked  her  browTn  hair,  an'  kissed 
her  white  forehead,  with  the  tears  in  his 
eyes. 

Well  an'  good  we  buried  her.  Domnall 
was  at  the  funeral,  but  he  stood  away  by 
himself  an'  didn't  say  as  much  as  "yis"  "ay" 
or  "no"  to  man  woman  or  child.  But  I'm 
thinkin',  he  remimbered  his  old  love  for  poor 
Mary  an'  missed  her  too,  for  he  got  worse, 
an'  shortly  after  this  he'd  talk  to  one  of  us 
an  odd  time  about  the  strange  visions  he 
used  to  have  in  the  winter  evenin's,  whin 
he'd  be  sittin'  by  the  turf-fire  an'  dancin' 
flames  ud  make  the  shadows  on  the  wall  leap 
around  him.  The  visions  wor  strange  things. 
He  used  to  talk  o'  "golden  ships  comin'  from 
where  the  sun  goes  down  behind  the  sea; 
golden  ships  bearin'  treasures  an'  stores  to 
Eire  an'  bringin'  happiness  an'  contentmint 
to  us  all."    An'   thin  he  began  to  go  up 


"he  stays  there  till  the  sun  has  gone  to  rest  an' 
thin  he  comes  down." 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  47 

on  Croc  Riabhach  to  watch  for  thim  comin\ 
an'  now  he  brings  that  ould  pike  that  was 
his  grandfather's  an'  he  is  the  lonely  sentinel 
o'  that  hill  lookin'  for  golden  ships  that 
never'll  come.  He  is,  as  himself  says,  the 
first  that  will  greet  him  on  the  shore  an'  he 
is  to  call  us  all  to  welcome  thim.  Hail, 
rain  or  snow,  he's  up  there  in  the  evenin's, 
an'  he  stays  there  till  the  sun  is  gone  to  rest 
an'  thin  he  comes  down,  disappointed  for 
that  day  but  hopin'  as  strong  as  ever  in  the 
morrow.  He's  strange,  Father,  very  strange, 
an'  more's  the  pity!  Domnall  Brady  is  ould 
now,  but  there  was  a  time  in  it,  an'  he  was 
the  finest  an'  best-humoured  man  in  the 
parish,  or  in  the  next  parish  to  it.  He  was 
the  best  hurler  I  ever  seen  to  hit  a  puck  on 
a  ball!" 

The  rain  had  long  since  ceased,  and  the 
road,  cut  through  the  lime-stone  hills  was 
again  wrhite  and  smooth.  The  dust  was 
not  yet  quite  dry  and  the  breeze  that  still  blew 
from  the  sea  could  not  whirl  it  about.  I 
walked  across  the  little  bridge  and  turned  in 
under  the  trees  that  arched  the  road.  At 
the  entrance  to  the  wood  a  man  came  over 
the  wrall  a  little  distance  in  front  of  me. 
His  face  as  far  as  I  could  make  out  in  the 
fading  twilight  was  thin  and  pale,  and  from 
his  wet  clinging  clothes  the  water  dropped  to 
the  roadway;  his  white  hair,  came  down  over 
his  brows  and  his  long  beard  fell  in  wet 
tongues  to  his  breast.    He  leant  for  a  moment 


48 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


on  his  pike-handle  and  watched  me  closely. 

As  I  passed  him  I  heard  him  mutter  in 
Irish:  "They  will  come  from  where  the  sun 
goes  down  into  the  sea;  and  I'll  watch  and 
wait  for  them  fori  know  they  will  come!" 

He  walked  on  into  the  shadows  behind 
me  and  I  saw  him  no  more.  He  had  defen- 
ded his  poor  mother,  and  this  was  what  the 
law  made  of  him  for  it! 


"ANOTHER  TALK  WITH  THE  AUTHOR 


A LOT  of  new  movement  and  life 
came  into  Fr.  O'Hara  since  he 
had  given  me  the  bundle  of  "Glimpses." 
He  paid  three  visits  to  my  place  for  every 
once  I  went  to  Clochfada,  and  as  he  usually 
walked  the  four  miles,  it  might  have  been 
the  exercise  that  made  him  of  late  so  bright 
and  cheerful. 

"Don't  you  think  you  are  a  bit  too  severe 
on  some  people  in  this?"  I  asked  him  on  one 
of  these  occasions,  and  I  indicated  the  manu- 
scripts that  rested  on  my  knees. 

"No  one  can  be  too  severe  on  a  man  who 
puts  politics,  conceit  and  paltry  pander- 
ing for  fulsome  flattery  before  the  precious 
duties  of  a  father!"  he  replied  with  more 
energy  than  I  thought  him  capable  of. 

"Well  that  may  be  true:  I  said,  "but  still 
we  have  not  many  of  Fardy's  Hilliard's 
class  around  here." 

"One  would  be  too  many."  he  remarked. 
"In  Ireland,  however  it  is,  we  are  too  much 
awed  of  popular  acclaim.  Our  people  create 
a  great  man,  and  then  follow  him  blindly 
till  one  whom  they  think  a  greater  does  a 
turn  or  two  on  the  stage.  We  worship 
"Greatness"  and  allow  ourselves  to  be  talked 
and  orated  out  of  reason;  and,  leaving  all 
our  thinking  to  others  forget  that  the  inaction 
begot  of  want  of  reflection  is  even  a  greater 


50 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


evil  than  any  of  those  that  are  continually 
kept  before  us." 

"I  wonder  what  political  creed  you  hold?" 
I  murmured. 

"The  good  points  of  any  political  scheme 
for  my  country's  good,  receive  my  support," 
was  his  reply.  "Thus  the  Parliamentary 
Party  receives  it,  except  in  so  far  as  it  puts 
trust  in  English  Statesmen.  We  have  been 
too  often  duped  to  any  longer  place  trust 
there.  I  follow  Sinn  Fein  in  its  support 
of  Irish  Manufacture,  but  cry  halt  at  its 
castle  building.  Both  are  working  for  Ire- 
land; each  has  good  points,  and,  like  every- 
thing human,  each  has  faults.  Now  do  you 
know  my  political  creed?" 

"I  must  have  time  to  consider,"  I  laugh- 
ingly replied.  "But  how  about  the  Gaelic 
League?    How  far  do  you  go  with  it?" 

"The  whole  way,"  he  returned  briskly, 
"the  whole  way  with  all  my  heart.  I  did 
not  mention  it,  because  I  understood  you  to 
inquire  about  my  political  creed,  and,  of 
course,  the  Gaelic  League  is  not  political, — 
it  does  not  concern  itself  with  the  nation's 
body,  at  least  not  directly,  but  with  the  soul 
and  spirit  of  nationhood.  When  the  Irish 
language  goes,"  and  I  felt  as  if  his  heart  and 
not  his  lips  spoke.  "When  the  Irish  language 
goes,  and  may  God  forbid  such  a  calamity, 
the  spirit  will  have  vanished  and  Ireland  as 
a  nation  will  be  dead!!" 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS. 


51 


I  watched  him  for  a  long  time,  as  deep  in 
thought  he  rested  his  elbow  on  the  table  and 
gazed  through  the  window  towards  where 
Slieve  Ban  clasped  to  her  bosom  the  ivied 
ruins  of  an  ancient  Irish  University. 

"If,"  he  at  last  said,  "the  crime  of  murder 
calls  to  Heaven  for  vengeance,  don't  you  think 
an  awful  account  will  be  exacted  of  those  who 
murder  a  nation,  or,  (for  it  is  the  same  thing), 
who,  having  the  power,  will  not  act  at  once 
in  concert  to  prevent  a  nation's  decay?' ' 

"And  who  are  they?"  I  wanted  to  make 
sure  of  his  meaning. 

"Ah!  Well,"  he  sighed,  "we  know!" 

Fr.  O'Hara  shifted  his  position  and  let 
his  eyes  again  rest  on  the  Manuscript. 

"But  to  return  to  your  original  point." 
he  said,  "in  regard  to  my  severity  on  some 
people,  you  singled  out  Fardy  Hilliard. 
Now  what  about  the  "mimbers"  and  the 
publican?  I  want  to  make  myself  clear  with 
you.  I  do  not  mean  these  to  be  types,  but 
such  as  I  describe  happen  to  exist  and  I 
know  them.  If  there  is  only  one  or  two  such 
members  of  parliament,  or  one  or  two  such 
publicans,  there  is  one  or  two  too  many.  I 
realize  that  there  are  worthy,  self  sacrificing 
Members,  worthy  Co.  Councillors,  worthy 
District  Councillors  and  publicans  and  so  on, 
but  necessarily  in  every  large  community, 
unworthy  persons  crawl  or  leap  into  influen- 
tial positions.  These  and  these  only  do  I 
attempt  to  criticise." 

That  ended  the  matter. 


"A  GREAT  SPAKER."* 


WETHEN!  Good    evenin',    ma'am,  an' 
how  is  all  your  care?" 
"Good  evenin'  kindly,  Mr.  Reardon,  an' 
they're  all  well,  thanks  be  to  God." 

"I'm  glad  o'  that,  so  I  am,  ma'am;  an'  is 
himself  at  home?" 

"He  is,  thin.  He  wint  in  awhile  ago  to 
'ready'  himself  for  the  wake." 

"I  was  thinkin'  he'd  be  goin',  and  so  I 
rambled  up,  so  I  did,  the  ways  we  would  go 
and  come  together,  as  I  want  to  be  home 
airly,  an'  I'm  sure  Murty  won't  delay." 

"Troth  an'  'tis  thruefor  you,  Matt,  I  will 
not  delay,"  said  Murty  himself,  fixing  the 
collar  of  his  coat  as  he  came  through  the 
door.  "I  would  scarcely  go  at  all,  but  out 
o'  respect  for  that  fine  boy  of  a  son  he  has — 
an'  a  fine  boy  he  is  too,  God  bless  him,  an' 
keep  him  so!  Nothing  could  make  me  have 
any  respect  for  the  father,  though,  no  mat- 
ther  what  change  come  over  him." 

"Well,  Murty,  the  son'll  never  be  the  great 
spaker  his  father  was,  Lord  ha'  mercy  on 
him!  an'  he  was  a  great  spaker  —  no  mistake.' 

"Great  spaker!  great  spaker!!  Fine  talk  is 
wind  —  nothing  more,  Matt.    Great  spaker! 
Go  bhfoiridh  Dia  orrainn!" 
There  can  be  no  idea  given  of  the  sarcasm 
with  which  Murty  spoke. 


♦Published  by  kind  permission  of  Ed.  "Irish  Rosary.' 


54 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


"Troth,  Murty,  you're  very  hard  on  him, 
an'  on  everyone  not  o'  your  own  way  o' 
thinkin',"  said  Matt,  sorrowfully. 

"Bad  luck  from  it  for  a  story,  Matt,  that's 
not  thrue.  Maybe  he  was  a  great  spaker, 
but  he  was  a  bad  father  in  the  'invarse  rashio,' 
as  Gleasawn,  the  schoolmaster,  used  to  say, 
an'  I  can  never  have  any  respect  for  a  bad 
father,  Matt,  when  he's  a  man  that  broke 
out  late  in  life  as  Fardy  did,  an'  was  brought 
up  as  he  was." 

"Somehow  or  other,"  said  Matt  scratch- 
ing his  head,  "I  can  only  remimber  him  as  a 
fine  talker,  an'  he  was  that,  so  he  was,  by  all 
accounts,  an'  to  me  own  knowledge.  'Twas 
given  up  to  him  that  there  was  no  bate  o' 
him  on  the  platform." 

"An'  he  may  thank  that  for  bein'  where  he 
is,  Matt,"  was  Murty 's  unfeeling  remark.  " 

"You're  terrible  hard  on  him  altogether, 
Murty.  Do  you  remimber  the  first  great 
speech  he  made  at  Bandara,  tin  years  ago?" 

"Ah,  thin!  I  do,  well,"  said  Murty,  "an' 
thin  and  now  I  say  there  was  no  'call'  for  that 
meetin'.  The  tinants  wor  gettin'  a  fair  set- 
tlemint,  and  thim  that  took  it  wor  right. 
Father  O'Dwyer  thought  the  same  thing, 
and  told  them  so,  and  signs  on  he  wasn't 
there.  Nayther  was  I,  Matt;  but  you  wor  in 
the  chair,  an'  the  divil  a  great  things  that's 
to  boast  of,  a-nayther!" 

Matt  was  silent,  and  they  walked  on. 

S$S      '  ^  Sffe  S).  ijs  if*  5j» 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  55 


About  three  miles  beyond  Clochfada  were 
the  " cross-roads"  of  Bandara,  and  at  the 
" cross-roads"  was  Tim  Brady's  public  house. 
Tim  was  a  "Ladin'  man"  in  his  own  place, 
but  he  managed  always  to  look  after  No.  1. 
He  minded  his  own  business  first  and  best, 
and  then  ' 'concerned  himself  in  the  inther- 
esthts  o'  the  community  at  large."     He  was 
considered  a  most  enlightened  man  as  well, 
for  he  got  the  daily  paper,  and  he  knew 
what  they  were  doing  in  all  the  foreign  parts. 
And  for  the  good  of  the  locality,  he  sold  a 
couple  of  the  Dublin  weeklies,  as  well  as  the 
Bally  or  an  Watchman,  a  great  national  organ 
filled  with  fine  speeches,  "demonstrations," 
district  councils  and  petty  sessions,  and  with 
crossed  pikes  and  sunbursts,  and  harps  and 
such  like,  scattered  all  over  its  eight  ill- 
printed   pages.    On   Saturdays   the  papers 
were  brought  from  Ballyoran  to  Tim's  by 
the  "bread -van,"  the  owner  of  which  was  only 
too  glad  to  be  able  to  oblige  his  customers 
without  extra  expense  to  himself;  and  on 
Saturday  evenings  the  local  lights  gathered 
in  to  get  the  news  and  discuss  the  great  ques- 
tions of  the  hour.    There  would  be  a  special 
gathering  if  it  was  expected  Mr.  Hilliard's 
latest  oration  was  on,  for  Fardy  was  a  neigh- 
bour, and  was  known  through  the  whole 
countryside  as  "a  greatspakeran'no  misthake." 
That  was  on  Saturday  night,  however.  On 
ordinary  week  nights  only  the  regular  cus- 
tomers turned  in,  and  these  came  as  a  matter 


56 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


of  business,  for  they  imagined  nothing  could 
get  along,  even  in  a  fair  way,  unless  they  ex- 
amined it  from  every  view-point  in  Tim 
Brady's  public-house,  and  that  to  do  this 
properly,  matters  should  be  discussed  every 
night  to  the  accompaniment  of  '  'pints"  or 
"half-wans,"  according  to  tastes.  The  only 
variety  in  the  programme  was  that  in  the 
fine  summer  evenings  the  actors  in  this  sense- 
less drama  sat  on  the  empty  porter  barrels 
at  the  gable,  going  in  now  and  again  for  a 
"wet;"  but  invariably,  they  wrent  home  with 
thickened  tongues  and  unsteady  steps  —  it 
was  their  idea  of  work  for  Ireland!  and  so 
they  spent  the  time. 

Fardy  Hilliard,  during  his  drinking  bouts 
(which,  by  the  way,  lasted  ten  or  eleven 
months  of  the  year)  was  there  every  night 
without  fail.  He  was  a  better-class  farmer, 
fairly  well  educated,  intelligent  enough,  but, 
unfortunately  for  himself,  he  had  got  the 
reputation  of  being"  a  great  spaker  —  no  mis- 
take." 

This  was  how  it  happened.  Ten  years 
before  our  story  opens  a  dispute  about  the 
payment  of  arrears  of  rent  arose  on  the  Hearn- 
Baxter  property.  Some  of  the  tenants, 
knowing  the  landlord  to  be  an  exception  to 
his  class,  were  for  meeting  him  and  talking 
the  matter  over  fairly  with  him.  Others, 
prompted  from  outside  —  or  perhaps,  from 
inside  Tim  Brady's  "pub" — hung  on  to  the 
cry  no  rack-rints,  and  would  agree  to  nothing 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  57 


but  "fight  it  out. M  Thus  a  division  was  caused 
and  the  result  was  that  some  refused  to 
pay  any  rent  at  all,  while  others  paid  "two 
years'  rint  an*  the  hangin'  gale,  an'  got  a 
clear  resate  for  all  arares;"  these  latter  were 
then  and  there  declared  "renaguers  to  their 
counthry,  an'  vipers  in  the  land,  to  be  spur- 
ned and  despised  by  every  thried  an'  thrue 
man." 

A  "Monsther  Demonstration11  was  held  in 
Bandara.  Five  M.  P.'s  were  invited,  and 
two  promised  to  attend.  The  parish  priest 
considering  that  there  was  not  sufficient 
cause  for  the  meeting,  was  not  present,  and 
our  old  friend,  Matt  Reardon,  not  then  the 
steady  man  we  lately  saw  him,  was,  "in 
the  unavoidable  absince  o'  our  respected 
pasthor,"  moved  to  the  chair  amidst  tremen- 
dous applause.  Mr.  Haverly,  M.  P.,  had 
arrived  the  previous  evening,  but  unfortu- 
nately, the  other  member  missed  a  train  com- 
nection  and  was  not  to  be  expected  till  the 
afternoon. 

The  meeting  had  been  postponed  for  over 
an  hour  for  him,  and  at  last,  in  spite  of  Tim 
Brady's  opposition,  it  was  decided  to  proceed. 
Tim,  who  was  looking  to  No.  1,  for  the  "dan- 
cint  man"  saw  that  the  longer  the  delay  the 
more  knuckles  would  be  rattling  on  his  coun- 
ter and  the  more  coppers  would  "herself ' 
be  raking  into  the  till. 

Mr.  Matt  Reardon  was  moved  to  the 
"cheah"  by  Mr.  Haverly,   M.  P.,  seconded 


58 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


by  Mr.  James  Horley,  P.L.G.  Matt  was 
beaming. 

'Tut  into  the  chair,  so  I  am,  by  a  rale  M. 
P.!"  were  his  thoughts,  "But  what  on  airth 
am  I  to  do  now  that  Fm  in  it?"  And  he 
drew  his  hand  across  his  heated  brow.  He 
had  lots  of  time  to  make  up  his  mind,  as  the 
thunders  of  applause  lasted  for  several  min- 
utes. 

At  length  they  began  to  get  calm.  A  few 
here  and  there  caused  a  little  disturbance  by 
calling  others  to  order. 

"Whist!  let  ye  there,  an'  give  the  dacint 
man  a  chance !" 

"Bravo!  Matt,  an'  ye'r  heartily  welkim!" 

"Hould  yer  nise  there;  don't  ye  hear  him 
thryin'  to  spake?" 

"Go  an,  Mr.  Reardon,  yer'  as  good  as  the 
besht  o'  thim!" 

"Ordher  there,  ordher,  ordher!" 

"Three  cheers  for  Ireland,  while  I  !" 

But  that  poor  fellow  never  completed  the 
sentence.  Somebody's  elbow  came  in  con- 
tact with  his  mouth,  and  his  "nationality" 
ended  in  a  weird  moan. 

Matt  waited  no  longer,  but  began: 

"Fellow-Counthrymin  from  Bandara, 
Clochfada,  Bailenahown  an'  surroundin'  dis- 
thricts  assimbled  in  yer  thousands  (Hear, 
hear,  bedad!)  here  to-day,  Fm  here,  so  I 
am  " 

A  voice  —  "Y'are  sol" 

Matt — "So  I  am,  a  man  o'  the  people 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  59 


(cheers)  for  me  father  was  a  paysant,  an*  me 
mother  was  a  paysant,  an'  bedad!  but  I'm 
a  paysant  meself!"  (Prolonged  cheers). 

A  voice — "  Long  life  to  ye  there  above !" 
(Cheers). 

Matt— "Didn't  I  suffer  in  that  Bashtile 
in  Kilmainham  for  me  convictions?  I  did 
so,  an'  I'm  ready  to  undergo  the  same  again, 
so  I  am!  (Cheers).  I'm  thankful  to  ye,  me 
frinds  and  counthrymin,  for  axin,  me  to  pre- 
side at  this  vast  assimbly.    (Yer'  welkim). 

Thus  Matt  went  on,  and  became  even  more 
eloquent  as  he  warmed  into  his  work.  In 
conclusion  he  hoped  "the  day  was  not  far 
distant  whin  the  green  flag  would  be  fly  in' 
from  every  home  in  Ireland  an'  whin  they'd 
have  their  parliamint  in  College  Green,  and 
Ireland  ud  be  a  free  counthry  for  a  free  peo- 
ple." 

So  far  Mr.  Harry  Weltham,  M.  P.,  the  ex- 
pected orator,  had  not  come.  The  meeting 
would  not  be  complete  without  him.  Every- 
one felt  that.  He  was  the  man  that  would 
address  four-fifths  of  his  remarks  to  the 
"peelers",  "an*  wasn't  a  bit  afeard  o'  them 
a-nayther,"  as  Tim  Brady  often  said.  Mr. 
Weltham,  too,  when  he  had  made  some  vague 
wild,  heroic  reference  to  the  "rising  of  the 
moon,"  or  the  like,  would  turn  to  the  police 
note- taker  and  invite  him  "to  take  down 
that  and  report  it  to  his  masters,  the  minions 
of  tyranny  in  the  dismal  offices  of  Dublin 
Castle."    And  the  open-mouthed  audience 


60 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


would  open  their  mouths  still  wider,  and  in 
admiration  of  such  bravery,  give  such  a  cheer 
as  would  terrify  the  principals  as  well  as  "the 
agents  of  tyranny' 9  had  they  but  heard  it. 

No  doubt  about  it  the  meeting  would  not 
be  a  success  without  Mr.  Harry  Weltham, 
M.  P.!  Everyone  hoped  he  would  drive  up 
at  any  moment.  Tim  Brady,  with  an  eye 
to  No.  1,  besought  them  to  adjourn  for  lun- 
cheon, and  that  as  soon  as  Mr.  Weltham 
came,  the  meeting  could  be  continued.  Matt 
saw  the  point  of  the  remark  well  enough,  but 
with  all  his  faults,  he  was,  as  indeed  were  the 
vast  majority  of  his  colleagues,  thoroughly 
upright  and  sincere  according  to  his  lights, 
and  so  was  resolved  to  go  on  with  the  meeting 
however  the  gap  was  to  be  filled.  Some- 
body suggested  that  they  should  get  1  'another 
local  spaker  to  give  them  a  speech  an'  kill 
the  time  till  the  mimber  kern." 

Here  is  where  Fardy  Hilliard  comes  in. 
He  had  the  name  of  being  a  "smart  chap, 
who  had  a  power  o'  big  rocks  o'  words," 
and  though  he  had  never  yet  spoken  from 
a  public  platform,  it  was  whispered  round 
with  sundry  head-shakes,  nods  and  nudges, 
that  he  was  the  only  man  they  could  depend 
on. 

Fardy,  after  much  demurring,  at  last  con- 
sented "to  say  a  few  words,"  as  himself  said, 
and  as  soon  as  Mr.  Haverly  —  who  had  very 
obligingly  continued  to  talk  whilst  all  this 
was  being  arranged  —  got  a  hint  from  the 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  61 


chairman:  "Ye  can  whisht  now,  sir,  any 
minit  y'like,"  the  aforesaid  Mr.  Haverly  got 
into  a  muddle.  He  lost  the  thread  of  his 
discourse  and  could  not  finish  with  any  show 
of  sense.  He  was  truly  miserable  when  a 
happy  thought  struck  him.  He  gave  one 
glorious  screech  for  liberty  and  Ireland,  and 
that  was  enough !  A  voice  cried : 

"Musha!  glory  on  ye  there !"  and  there  was 
a  roar  of  applause  that  shook  the  very  porter 
barrels  that  supported  the  platform,  and 
Mr.  Haverly  bowed  and  stood  aside  to  listen 
to  the  long-continued  plaudits  of  a  delighted 
multitude  and  receive  the  congratulations  of 
his  friends. 

When  the  applause  at  length  died  away, 
Matt  Reardon  announced: 

"Fellow-counthrymin  —  (Hear,  hear)  — 
it  is  a  pleasure  to  me,  so  it  is,  to  introduce  me 
frind,  Mr.  Fardy  Hilliard,  a  dacint  man,  and 
so  was  his  father  before  him  

A  voice —  "Divil  a  dacinter  in  Ireland 
ground !" 

Matt — "So  he  was,  an'  his  son'll  spake  to 
ye  now,  an'  there's  no  man'll  give  ye  advice 
so  fearlessly  an'  so  bravely  as  me  frind,  Mr. 
Fardy  Hilliard !" 

A  voice  —  Kind  father  for  him  to  be  good. 
(Cheers). 

Another  voice  —  Ye're  heartily  welkim, 
sir." 

Fardy  Hilliard  came  forwrard,  and  when 
the  cheers  of  greeting  died  away,  began  his 


62 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


first  public  speech.  He  was  a  fine  type  of 
better  class  Irish  farmer,  tall  and  well  pro- 
portioned, with  a  fair  open  face,  altogether 
of  an  appearance  that  would  impress  one. 

Why  was  he  there?  Murty  Glynn  would 
not  go  to  this  meeting  because  he  could  not 
see  justice  in  the  proceeding,  he  asserted  the 
Parish  Priest  was  absent  for  the  same  reason, 
and  yet  they  were  both  excellent  Irishmen. 
It  must  have  been  that  Fardy  did  not  con- 
sider matters  deeply,  he  had  seen  so  many 
glaring  injustices  on  the  part  of  the  landlord 
class,  that,  given  the  opportunity  however 
it  came,  he  was  ready  and  anxious  to  show 
that  his  sympathy  was  always  with  the  tenant. 
He  had  long  since  ceased  to  weigh  the  justice 
of  the  cause.  If  landlord  and  tenant  had  a 
difference  then  the  landlord  was  wrong  and 
the  tenant  right,  and  Fardy  was  for  the  tenant. 
Most  probably  Fardy' s  presence  is  thus  ex- 
plained. If  he  and  many  of  his  sort  had 
learned  to  think,  and  were  not  carried  away 
by  impulse  and  the  enthusiasm  of  the  mo- 
ment, our  country's  history  for  the  past 
couple  of  decades  might  be  very  different 
from  what  it  is. 

Fardy's  maiden  speech  was  a  great  success 
unfortunately  for  Fardy.  He  spoke  for  near- 
ly a  full  hour,  first  very  sensibly  and  to  the 
point,  but,  towards  the  middle,  he  somehow 
got  switched  on  to  the  old,  well  known,  highly 
polished  track  of  sunbursts  resplendent — 
shamrocked  hills  and  plains  of  Ireland  —  the 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  63 


culmination  and  solidification  of  the  cause 
of  freedom,  and  fraternal  mutuality,  and  so 
on  and  on,  till,  finally,  he  threatened  to  smash 
the  doors  of  prisons,  gaols  and  dungeons  — 
to  sweep  Dublin  Castle  and  its  nefarious  sys- 
tem into  the  sea;  and  then  Fardy  Hilliard 
gave  a  yell  that  knocked  the  helmet  off  the 
head  and  the  colour  out  of  the  face  of  the 
boyish  district-inspector  who  was  there  in 
command  of  "the  force/ '  he  warned  all  and 
sundry  that  the  inevitable  "no  far  distant 
date"  will  see  peelers,  soldiers,  and  Govern- 
ment agents  "as  scarce  in  Ireland  as  clover 
in  Pollnameadog,  where  never  clover  grew." 

There  were  cheers  and  cheers  and  cheers. 
Fardy  had  been  a  great  success.  Every- 
body said  so. 

"The  finest  piece  of  talk  I  ever  heard", 
whispered  the  enraptured  Matt,  "an*  I'm 
leshenin'  to  spakers  for  twinty-five  years, 
so  I  am.  Mr.  Whatever-his-name-is  sint  a 
wire  that  he  couldn't  get  a  horse  in  Bally- 
oran  to  bring  him  other  (hither.)  They're 
all  at  the  meetin'  here,  I  suppose,  but  he  may 
stay  where  he  is  now  for  all  I  care,  for  you 
finished  the  day  as  good  as  his  best.  We 
can  wind  up  the  proceedin'  now,  so  we  can, 
without  disappointment  to  man  or  mortial." 

And  so  they  did. 

An  adjournment  to  Tim  Brady's  for  as 
many  as  could  get  in  at  a  time:  then  a  few 
hours'  moping  about  the  roads  till  late  in  the 
evening  and  contingent  after  contigent  started 


64 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


for  home.  Many,  alas,  far  from,  being  sober, 
and  all  more  or  less  disorderly,  straggled, 
argued,  shouted  till  every  village  round  Ban- 
dara  received  back  the  patriots,  and  women 
and  children  listened  in  awe  to  the  story  of 
"the  great  day's  work  done  for  Ireland (?)" 

Fardy's  downward  course  had  begun.  He 
was  elated  by  his  success.  From  all  sides  he 
heard  that  he  was  "a  great  spaker  an'  no 
mishtake,,,  and  he  believed  it.  Time  after 
time  he  stood  drinks  "all  round",  and  as  he 
took  "a  drop"  himself  every  time  he  stood 
drinks,  he  went  home  to  his  young  family  in 
such  a  state  as  he  had  never  been  in  before. 
Poor  Fardy! 

Henceforward  neither  "monsther  demon- 
startion"  nor  meeting  of  any  sort  was  com- 
plete without  him.  His  name  was  among  the 
"spakers"  on  the  posters,  his  speech  would  be 
mentioned  in  the  Dublin  dailies  —  as  much  as 
some  M.  P.'s  get  —  and  a  full  report  and  a 
leaderette  given  in  the  Bally  or  an  Watchman. 
Fardy's  head  was  turned  with  it  all.  If  he 
went  to  work  in  the  field  he  found  himself 
standing  idly  on  the  "ridge"  leaning  on  his 
spade  handle  and  dreaming  of  some  great 
speech  he  would  make  in  the  near  future. 
Do  his  best  he  could  not  work.  Besides, 
though  he  refused  to  present  himself  for  elec- 
tion as  a  County  Councillor  or  D.  C. —  he 
must  have  thought  it  beneath  him  to 
be  elected  in  the  ordinary  way  —  yet  he  con- 
sented to  be  co-opted  on  both.    Later  he 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  65 


was  put  on  the  Asylum  Board  and  a  couple  of 
committees,  so  that,  as  he  himself  said,  "he 
could  not  really  call  a  moment  of  time  his 
own.  His  country  needed  him  and  it  should 
have  his  services.  " 

His  house  and  place  might  "go  to  the  dogs' 1 
for  all  Fardy  cared  now.  His  motherless 
family  might  starve  or  run  away,  but  he  was 
a  public  man  who  could  think  of  nothing 
but  public  affairs.  Fardy  was  a  changed 
man. 

His  eldest  son,  a  lad  of  sixteen  at  the  time 
of  the  Bandara  meeting,  seeing  how  things 
were  going  on  left  college  a  year  and  a  half 
later  and  came  home.  His  father  was  dis- 
gusted with  his  action  and  wanted  to  send 
him  back;  but  Dick  was  determined,  and, 
literally  taking  off  his  coat,  set  to  work  to 
keep  things  together  and  build  up,  if  possible 
faster  than  his  father  knocked  down.  God 
strengthened  him,  for  he  succeeded  admira- 
bly and  Murty  Glynn  was  no  small  assistance 
to  him.  At  first  the  disappointed  father 
openly  hampered  and  contradicted  the  boy 
in  everything  he  attempted.  Dick  bore  it 
all  patiently.  He  never  let  himself  forget 
for  a  moment  that  this  selfish  tippler  was  his 
own  father,  and  that  two  younger  brothers 
and  an  only  sister  depended  on  himself  alone. 

Later  his  father  did  not  oppose  him  very 
much,  but  yet  wanted  to  have  things  done 
his  own  way.  He  still  gave  personal  atten- 
tion to  fairs  and  market  business,  but  after 


66 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


another  few  years  Fardy,  the  wreck  of  his 
former  self,  ceased  to  take  any  interest  even 
in  that,  and  Dick,  now  a  young  man,  managed 
everything  as  he  thought  fit.  And  right 
well  did  he  do  it.  The  effects  of  drink 
and  politics  in  his  father's  case  were  a  warn- 
ning  to  him,  and  he  profitted  by  it,  for  he 
steered  clear  of  both. 

His  father's  case  he  felt  to  be  hopeless. 
He  had  done  all  he  could  to  make  him  his 
old  self  —  the  father  his  boyhood  knew  — 
but  it  was  all  to  no  purpose.  The  priest's 
services  he  enlisted;  he  sought  the  help  of 
neighbours,  especially  Murty  Glynn;  prayers 
he  got  offered;  and  every  time  he  knelt  to 
speak  to  God  his  father's  conversion  was 
before  his  mind,  yet  it  all  seemed  no  use. 
Fardy  was  sober  occasionally  for  a  month  or 
two,  and  then  a  meeting  of  some  sort  took 
place,  and  he  was  tippling  again  for  perhaps 
eight  or  ten  months,  and,  during  this  time 
he  turned  up  regurlaly  at  Tim  Brady's. 
There  he  was  captain  of  the  assembly,  gave 
his  views  on  everything,  reasoned  things  over 
till  everybody  agreed  with  him,  read  aloud 
the  orations  of  every  politician  of  note  (in- 
cluding himself),  and  acted  the  part  of  a  great 
leader  of  thought,  forgetting  the  while  the 
duties  home  claimed  from  him  - —  that  God 
had  given  him  children  to  care  for  and  guide 
and  guard,  and  that  one  of  them  —  his 
youngest,  his  fairest,  his  only  daughter  — 
was  slipping  away  from  him,  and  that  he 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS. 


67 


who  should  make  her  so  happy  was  crushing 
her  poor  loving  heart,  and  causing  her  to  die 
all  the  quicker. 

One  night  Fardy  was  in  the  middle  of  a 
(to  him)  most  interesting  discussion.  It  was 
past  nine  o'clock,  and  he  was  "well  on  it". 
Willie,  his  second  son,  came  into  the  bar 
kitchen  and  begged  him  to  "hurry  home,  as 
Caitlin  was  very  weak  and  was  asking  for 
him.  She  wanted  to  speak  to  him.  Would 
he  come  at  once?" 

Fardy  looked  at  the  boy  a  moment  with 
drunken  eyes. 

"Go  home,  boy!"  he  hiccuped.  'Til,  Til 
be  after  you  in  —  in  —  a  jiffey.  Go  you 
home,  boy."  And  then  he  turned  to  the 
others  and  continued  the  wise  and  learned 
discussion.  Ay!  he  would  be  time  enough 
when  the  clock  struck  ten  and  Tim  Brady 
put  up  the  shuts  and  cleared  them  out.  He 
would  be  time  enough! 

Not  even  at  ten  did  he  hurry  home,  but 
loitered  every  few  paces  to  drive  home  some 
point  for  the  benefit  of  those  friends  who  hap- 
pened to  be  going  his  way.  Eleven  was 
striking  as  he  groped  at  his  own  door.  He 
pushed  it  open  at  last  and  staggered  into 
the  kitchen.  His  two  sons  were  there  be- 
fore him.  They  looked  up  as  he  entered, 
but  seeing  his  state  gazed  into  the  fire  again. 
Fardy,  forgetful  of  the  message  he  had  re- 
ceived almost  two  hours  before,  thought  they 
had  waited  up  for  him  - —  a  thing  he  detested 


68 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


—  so,  with  a  great  show  of  virtue  which  ill 
became  him,  he  loudly  demanded: 

' 'What's  the  meaning  of  this  sitting  up  all 
night?  You  boys  should  be  in  bed  at  this 
hour!    I'm  able  to  take  care  of  myself." 

"Hush!  what's  this  noise  about?"  asked 
Father  O'Dwyer  in  a  whisper,  as  he  came 
quickly  from  the  sick  room  and  took  off  his 
purple  stole.  "Ah!  Fardy,  Fardy,  Fardy! 
Is  it  so,  and  are  you  gone  so  very  low?  Yet 
I'm  not  very  much  surprised  at  your  state, 
but  Fm  shocked  —  disgusted  that  any  father 
should  refuse  to  come  to  the  death-bed  of  his 
only  daughter!" 

"Beg  pardon,  Father — " 

"Beg  God's  pardon  when  you're  in  the 
condition  to  do  so!" 

"Death-bed!  Death-bed!  Beg  pardon, 
sir,  I'm  in  my  own  house.  What  did  you 
say  about  death-bed?" 

"I  say  Caitlin  is  dying  —  speak  easier,  that 
we  may  not  disturb  her.  She  is  dying,  and 
you  would  not  come  from  the  public-house 
to  see  her.  Be  quiet,  you,  now,  and  don't 
disturb  her.  She  is  resting  easily  at  present. 
Go  to  your  room  and  sleep  it  off  and  then 
you  may  see  her." 

A  wonderful  change  had  been  coming  over 
Fardy  while  the  priest  was  speaking.  He 
was  not  sobered  by  the  shock,  but  it  seemed 
to  him  as  if  a  great  black  shadow  had  come 
upon  him. 

"Father,  let  me  in  now.    I  want  to  speak 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  69 


to  Caitlin.  There's  something  I  want  to 
tell  her.  Let  me  speak  to  my  poor  child/ ' 
"No!"  said  the j priest,  "certainly  not! 
You  would  not  come  when  you  were  in  a 
better  condition  to  see  her.  Go  sleep,  off 
the  effects  of  your  liquor  first,  and  then  speak 
to  the  poor  child.  Take  him  to  his  room, 
boys!" 

Fardy  glared,  but  the  priest's  hand  was 
laid  heavily  on  his  shoulder.  Father  O' 
Dwyer  meant  what  he  said. 

"I'll  go  to  my  room,"  said  he,  sullenly, 
as  he  stumbled  towards  it. 

When  Fardy  opened  his  eyes,  it  was  the 
clear  dawn.  He  found  himself  fully  dressed, 
as  he  had  merely  thrown  himself  on  the  bed 
the  night  before.  He  tried  to  collect  his 
thoughts.  Who  vexed  him  last  night?  Why 
had  he  not  undressed?  Ah!  yes,  he  thought 
of  it  now.  Caitlin  was  sick,  dying  —  per- 
haps dead  now!  He  jumped  up  and  hastened 
into  the  kitchen.  The  fire  burned  brightly, 
the  lamp  was  still  lighting,  as  it  had  been 
all  night,  and  as  he  stood  in  wonder  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor,  he  heard  the  low  voices 
brokenly  reciting  the  litany  for  the  dying. 
There  was  a  pause. 

"Oh!  poor,  poor,  gentle  Caitlin,  you're 
gone  from  us,"  cried  Dick,  and  burst  into 
tears.  There  was  a  low  wail,  and  Fardy 
rushed  in.  He  was  late.  Caitlin  was  gone 
out  of  life.  He  gazed  at  her  for  a  moment, 
then  went  to  the    bedside  and  kneeling, 


70 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


caught  her  hand  and  covered  it  with  kisses 
and  tears. 

"I'm  late,  and  it's  my  own  fault,  God  for- 
give me.  I  don't  blame  your  brothers  for 
not  wakening  me.  I  didn't  deserve  it. — 
Dick  and  Willie,  come  over  here  to  me  till 
you  witness  what  I  wanted  to  tell  Caitlin 
last  night.  In  death  let  her  do  what  neither 
she  nor  you  could  do  in  life.  Hear  me,  my 
sons,  and  pardon  me  the  past,  if  ye  can!  I 
will  never,  with  God's  help  and  the  help  of 
His  Holy  Mother,  never  again  taste  intoxicat- 
ing drink,  nor  go  into  the  temptation ;  God  give 
me  strength  to  keep  my  word,  and  maybe 
my  poor  Caitlin  will  ask  that  grace  from  God 
for  me!" 

He  kissed  her  white  hands  again  and  again 
and  then  his  sons  kissed  him;  and,  with  the 
neighbours  that  were  witnesses  of  this  sad 
scene,  they  bowed  their  heads,  and  said  the 
Rosary  for  her  soul. 

Little  more  than  a  year  passed  by,  and 
Fardy  had  more  than  kept  his  word.  He 
neither  drank,  spoke  of  politics,  nor  did  any 
of  those  other  things  that  at  one  time  dis- 
distracted  him  from  the  love  he  should  have 
shown  his  children.  He  went  but  little 
from  home.  Oftentimes  he  visited  his  daugh- 
ter's grave  and,  kneeling  on  the  damp  grass, 
prayed  for  her,  and  then  he  would  kiss  the 
green  sod  before  he  came  away.  Thus  more 
than  a  year  passed. 

One  evening  he  remained  from  home  Ion- 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  71 


ger  than  usual.  Towards  nightfall  it  was 
turning  cold  and  wet,  and  his  sons,  getting 
uneasy,  went  to  seek  him.  They  found  him 
on  Caitlin's  grave,  and  they  lifted  him  gently 
and  brought  him  with  them. 

Later  in  the  night  he  asked  for  the  priest 
and  he  added: 

"I  won't  see  Caitlin's  grave  again,  but  I'll 
see  herself  soon." 

That  very  night  he  died  a  holy,  happy  death 

"So  Murty  and  Matt  went  to  the  wake?" 
I  glanced  up  from  the  last  page. 

"And  I  was  at  the  funeral,"  said  Fr.  O'Hara. 

"Maybe,  then,  you  are  the  Fr.  O'Dwyer 
who  anointed  Caitlin?" 

"Maybe  so!"  and  he  gave  a  slight  toss  of 
his  head  that  left  me  still  in  doubt. 


'ONLY  A  STONE  BREAKER." 


MY  neighbour  and  friend,  Dr.  Mac- 
Sharry,  invited  me  to  dinner. 
There  were  just  three!  of  us  —  MacSharry, 
Major  Brownson,  a  Co.  Meath  landlord  who 
had  lately  rented  a  shooting  lodge  in  the 
parish,  and  myself.  Our  host  had  previously 
warned  me  of  the  Major's  violent  temper, 
especially  explosive,  if  anyone  dared  oppose 
his  views  on  the  state  of  Ireland,  and  had 
begged  of  me  to  keep  clear  of  every  sub- 
ject savouring  of  politics,  "for"  he  said,  "if 
he  starts  and  you  start,  I'm  likely  to  start, 
and  I'm  as  hot  as  his  best.  But  he's  my  guest, 
and  of  course  I  don't  want  to  offend,  so  steer 
him  off  all  national  questions  and  don't  give 
me  a  chance  to  open  my  mouth!" 

I  did  my  best  to  keep  Brownson  off  the 
rocks,  but  he  continually  turned  the  conver- 
sation back  on  the  "utter  lawlessness  of  the 
Irish  people,"  and  cited  as  examples,  the  ex- 
aggerated accounts  he  had  read,  in  the  tory 
press,  of  outrages  real  and  alleged.  Once  I 
saw  MacSharry  about  to  take  him  up  and 
abruptly  introduced  the  soothing  subject 
of  music,  but  the  Major  was  not  to  be  drawn 
off.  At  last  a  happy  thought  struck  me. 
I  broke  through  my  ordinary  reserve  and 
offered  to  take  up  Brownson's  argument's 
point  by  point  and  requested  MacSharry  to 


74 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


act  as  umpire.  My  offer  was  accepted,  so 
the  situation,  since  the  umpire  was  excluded 
from  taking  sides,  was  saved. 

I  began  by  mentioning  that  my  knowledge 
of  the  Irish  people  was  first  hand,  as  I  was 
brought  up  amongst  them,  and  amongst 
them  I  worked,  intimate  with  their  outward 
and  inward  lives,  and  depending  on  no 
garbled  or  prejudiced  press  reports.  I  argued 
as  best  I  could  and  had  the  feeling  that  I 
was  clearing  this  man's  mind  of  a  lot  of  pre- 
judice, but  when  I  had  concluded  what  I 
thought  was  a  clear,  logical  defence  of  my 
country  and  its  people,  Brownson  exclaim- 
ed impatiently: — 

"It  doesn't  matter  a  pin  sir,  what  you  may 
say,  you  can  never  justify  injustice,  and 
your  people  commit  the  most  terrible  in- 
justices !" 

"Pray  how?"  I  inquired. 

"Why,  sir,  you  must  be  blind  not  to  see  it! 
Don't  you  know  full  well  what  is  taking 
place  every  day,  made  public  in  the  courts 
of  law  and  in  the  press.  If  a  man  pays  for  a 
farm  of  land,  or  rents  it  for  a  year,  or  has 
more  than  his  neighbour,  he  is  boycotted, 
ostricised,  shot  at  and  tyrannised  over  by  a 
pack  of  porter  barrel  demagogues!  Don't 
you  know  that,  sir?" 

"I  do  not,  Major,  you  are  misinformed," 
I  emphatically  asserted. 

"But  the  courts  " 

"Receive  their  knowledge  from  police  re- 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS. 


75 


ports  and  to  speak  mildly  I  have  more  reliance 
on  my  own  personal  knowledge.  Occasion- 
ally such  incidents  as  you  have  enumerated 
do  occur  but  it  is  wrong  to  lay  them  at  the 
doors  of  the  people  in  general,  when  it  is 
well  known  that  only  a  few  ill  advised  boys 
with  a  wrong  notion  of  national  duty  are 
guilty  of  it.  Furthermore,  granting  there  is 
a  general  discontent,  but  not  general  lawless- 
ness, I  can  explain  it  as  the  evil  effect  of 
an  evil  cause/ ' 

"I  should  be  pleased  to  hear  your  explana- 
tion, sir,"  and  the  Major  leant  back  in  his 
chair. 

"Very  well,  Major,  if  you  will  be  so  good 
as  to  postpone  the  discussion  until  after 
dinner,  I  shall  try  to  tell  a  little  story  that 
demonstrates  the  cause  of  the  discontent 
far  better,  perhaps,  than  any  argument  of 
mine  can  do." 

"Psa!  A  story  against  facts !"  sneered 
Brcwnson.  It  was  hard  to  be  patient  with 
him. 

"But  the  story  happens  to  be  fact,  too," 
I  replied  with  forced  calmness.  "It  is  a 
little  modern  history  that  some  of  us  are  too 
ready  sometimes  to  overlook. —  Now,  Dr., 
you  may  for  the  present  retire  from  your 
position  as  umpire,  and  we'll  'talk  of  graves' 
or  music,  or  anything  you  like  till  the  cloth 
is  removed,  and  then  for  the  boredom  of 
my  story  !M 


76 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


"He  was  only  a  poor  stone-breaker,  "and 
the  first  time  I  saw  him  was  on  a  bright 
summer  evening,  a  day  or  two  after  my  arri- 
val in  the  parish.  I  was  taking  a  walk  where 
the  road  ran  through  a  magnificent  wood 
and  the  great  trees  on  each  side,  entwining 
their  long,  leafy  branches  overhead,  cut  out 
the  heat  of  the  glaring  sun  and  made  a  delight- 
fully cool  walk  beneath. 

I  had  just  entered  the  wood,  when  I  saw  the 
old  man  rise  with  difficulty  from  the  heap 
of  stones  he  had  been  breaking,  and  go 
slowly  along  the  road  before  me.  He  paused 
awhile  opposite  a  "grand-gate/ 9  and  taking 
off  his  hat,  crossed  himself.  He  was  praying 
with  bowed  head  as  I  came  nearer,  and  as  I 
had  no  desire  to  interupt  I,  too,  paused.  I 
felt  sure  that  inside  the  battered  wall  was 
an  old  graveyard  where  rested  the  ashes  of 
some  he  once  knew  and  loved,  but  imagine 
my  surprise  when,  on  looking  through  a 
gap,  I  saw  only  a  great,  ruined  mansion, 
roofless  and  weather- torn,  crows  cawing  a- 
round  its  gaunt  chimneys  and  flying  through 
its  broken  windows. 

"May  God  forgive  them  and  me!"  came 
from  the  old  man  and  again  he  went  slowly 
on,  and,  I  thought,  more  sadly. 

I  wondered  why  he  prayed  at  that  gate 
and  hastened  to  overtake  him.  His  name, 
he  told  me,  was  Ned  O'Brien,  and,  when  I 
had  made  myself  known,  his  old,  worn  hands 
clasped  mine. 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  77 


"Musha!  then  you're  heartily  welcome  here, 
Father !"  he  said,  "an'  I'm  sure  you'll  .like 
this  place,  too.  There  was  never  a  priest 
here  that  wasn't  lonesome  leavin'it!"  They 
say  that  in  every  parish  in  Ireland,  and  I 
think  it's  true. 

For  a  time  we  spoke  of  various  things 
and  when  the  conversation  at  last  drifted 
to  the  ruined  mansion  in  the  wood,  I  asked 
him  why  he  prayed  as  he  passed  its  gate. 

The  compressed  lips  and  sad  look  in  his 
eyes  told  me  I  had  touched  a  sore  wound  and 
I  felt  sorry  I  had  asked  the  question. 

"Wethen,  Father!"  said  the  old  stone- 
breaker,  "if  you'd  like  to  hear  the  reason  o' 
that,  I'll  tell  you,  an'  welcome.  An'  maybe 
whin  I've  finished  you'd  be  able  to  tell 
me  whether,  after  all,  I'm  so  much  to  blame 
as  I  think  I  am." 

And  now  I  give  the  substance  of  the  old 
man's  story;  as  he  did  not,  I  believe,  give 
himself  his  full  measure  of  praise,  I  shall  en- 
deavour to  do  so  for  him. 

Castle  Balstone,  that  we  had  just  passed, 
had  been  a  "great"  place  at  one  time,  and  a 
proud  family  dwelt  within  its  walls.  As  was 
usual  with  great  families  in  those  days,  the 
Baldstones  lived  beyond  their  means,  and 
to  make  ends  meet,  they  crushed  and  crushed 
their  large  tenantry  till  the  latter  could 
scarcely  call  their  lives  their  own.  Every 
penny,  whether  they  could  spare  it  or  not, 
was  wrung  from  them,  and  the  wonder  now 


78 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


is,  how  the  people  could  have  borne  the  in- 
justice so  long  and  so  patiently,  but  possibly 
it  was  because  they  were  so  used  to  being 
crushed  that  they  hadn't  the  hearts  left  in 
them  to  fight.  Still  they  clung  to  their 
little  places  in  the  mountains  and  in  the  bogs 
whither  they  had  been  exiled  to  starve. 
They  clung  to  them  because  they  loved  them 
for  their  father's  sakes,  who,  toiling  and  sweat- 
ing to  improve  the  land,  had  sanctified  every 
sod,  and,  then,  there  was  the  hope  that  God 
would  at  last  take  pity  on  them  and  send 
them  better  days. 

Ned  was  one  of  the  tenants  and  had  reason 
to  remember  the  fact.  He  told  me  of  the 
winter,  nigh  on  thirty-five  years  ago,  when 
old  George  Balstone  died. 

"We  were  glad  of  it,  an'  no  wonder,"  said 
Ned,  "for  he  was  a  hard,  cold-hearted  man. 
An'  thin,  we  expected  the  new  landlord,  who 
was  a  young  man,  an'  had  seen  a  lot  of  the 
world,  would  at  least  leave  the  rents  as  they 
were  an'  not  make  our  burthen  heavier.  We 
lit  bonfires  for  him  (may  God  forgive  us!) 
whin  he  came  home,  an'  at  once  dismissed 
Harry  Simson  from  the  agency,  for  we  blamed 
Harry  for  a  lot  of  our  misfortunes.  But 
sure!  Mo  lean  gear!  It  wasn't  from  any  good 
cause  he  did  that,  but  because  he  was  a 
greater  skinflint  than  his  father  an'  wanted 
to  save  Harry's  salary  an'  be  his  own  agent!" 

The  next  thing  that  happened  was  that 
the  tenants  got  notice  of  a  further  increase 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS. 


79 


of  rent  to  be  paid  at  a  certain  date,  and  any- 
one failing  to  pay  should  get  the  roadside. 
All  the  tenants  came  together  to  see  what  was 
to  be  done,  and  a  sadder  and  more  broken 
body  of  men  can  scarcely  be  imagined-  It 
is  easy  to  find  fault  with  the  Irish  and  say 
they  are  backward,  but  when  we  remember 
that  for  centuries  they  had  the  protection 
of  no  law,  but  rather  had  all  the  power  of 
their  rulers  levelled  against  them,  we  can  only 
wonder  that  they  survived  the  ordeal. 

There  was  the  crowd  of  tenants;  old  men 
who  had  worn  themselves  out  making  rich 
land  of  poor  and  having  their  rents  increased 
for  their  pains;  middle  aged  men,  who  saw 
downright  starvation  staring  them  in  the 
face,  if  their  burthen  were  made  heavier, 
and  young  men,  who  only  remained  on  the 
soil  because  they  had  aged  fathers  and  mo- 
thers depending  on  them. 

"What's  to  become  of  us  all?"  murmured 
old  Paddy  Hussian.  "Sure,  if  we  spoke  to 
him,  he  couldn't  be  so  hard-hearted  as  not 
to  show  us  some  fair  play!" 

"Hard-hearted!"  came  from  another.  "Sure 
the  man  has  no  heart  at  all.  An'  as  for  fair 
play!  Never  expect  fair  play  from  a  Balstone!" 

"I  wonder  if  we  brought  the  parish  priest 
with  us,  would  he  listen  to  him?"  suggested 
Matt  Hannifin. 

"We  won't  bring  Fr.  John  where  he'll  be 
insulted,"  said  Ned  O'Brien.  "Didn't  old 
George  threaten  to  horsewhip  him  once  before 
for  interferin'  " 


80 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


"An'  didn't  Fr.  John  pay  the  ould  divil 
back  well  for  it  ?"  said  Matt. 

"I  don't  care,"  said  Ned.  "This  new  man 
as  far  as  I  can  make  him  out  cares  neither 
for  God  nor  devil.  Let  us  face  him  ourselves 
like  min,  an'  whin  he  sees  us  combined  maybe 
he'll  listen  to  reason." 

"An'  if  he  doesn't  listen  to  reason,"  said 
young  Cullen,  "maybe  he'd  listen  to  some- 
thing else!" 

There  was  a  disapproving  murmur  at  that, 
for  all  knew  what  was  meant,  but  murder 
was  the  last  thing  they  would  think  of. 

At  last  Ned's  counsel  prevailed  and  they 
went  in  a  body  to  the  hall-door  of  Balstone 
Castle. 

Ned  looked  around  him  and  thought  with 
himself  that  he  had  least  of  all  to  suffer. 
Only  his  wife  and  a  boy  of  eleven  years  of 
age  depended  on  him,  and  even  if  the  worst 
came  they  could  make  out  a  living  some  way. 
Besides,  he  was  then  fully  six  feet  in  height 
and  that  made  him  feel  stronger  and  braver 
as  he  gazed  at  the  broken  comrades  that 
were  with  him.  He  had  heard  that  real 
tyrants  are  sometimes  appeased  with  one  great 
victim,  and  the  thought  occurred  to  him  that 
if  he  made  himself  very  prominent,  Balstone 
would  wreck  vengeance  on  him  and,  as  he 
would  think,  to  make  it  more  bitter,  would 
give  the  others  a  chance. 

It  was  worth  trying,  and,  anyhow,  worse 
off  than  they  were  they  could  not  be;  so 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS. 


81 


telling  the  rest  to  leave  everything  to  him, 
he  went  boldly  up  the  steps  and  rang  the 
bell. 

The  footman  came  to  the  door. 
"I  want  to  speak  to  Mr.  Balstone,"  said 
Ned. 

"He's  not  at  home,"  was  the  answer. 
But  Ned  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  master 
of  the  castle,  as,  hiding  behind  the  curtains 
of  the  drawing  room  window,  he  watched 
and  listened. 

"I  want  to  see  Mr.  Baldstone."  And  Ned 
pretended  he  did  not  understand. 

"He's  not  at  home,  I  say,"  repeated  the 
footman. 

"But  I  want  to  see  him,"  said  Ned  dog- 
gedly. 

"But  you  can't  see  him,"  returned  the 
servant. 

"I  must  and  I  will  see  him,"  and  Ned  was 
now  thoroughly  roused. 

"Aisy,  Ned,  aisy!"  was  suggested  from 
behind,  but  Ned's  blood  was  up.  He  put 
his  foot  before  the  door  as  the  footman  at- 
tempted to  close  it;  and  the  latter  could  only 
wonder  whether  this  peasant  was  mad  to 
speak  thus  within  earshot  of  his  master,  for 
he,  too,  knew  that  Balstone,  was  listening. 

"Look  here,  my  man,"  said  Ned,  "go  to 
your  master  in  the  drawing  room  there  and  1 
tell  him  we  came  to  see  him  on  business!" 
And,  overawed  by  Ned's  six  foot  of  manly 
strength,  the  footman    hastened  to  obey. 


82 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


Could  Ned  have  foreseen  the  full  consequences 
of  his  action,  he  might  not  have  been  so 
rash,  but  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment 
he  took  no  time  to  consider. 

Balstone  glared  as  the  servant  entered. 
His  face  was  livid  with  passion;  his  clenched 
hands  trembled  as  he  ordered  the  man  to  re- 
turn and  say:  "The  damned  churlish  fellow 

should  see  him  and  by  h          would  have 

cause  to  regret  it." 

Balstone,  then  taking  a  revolver  from  a 
drawer,  saw  that  every  chamber  was  loaded, 
and  put  it  in  his  pocket.  He  went  out  the 
back  entrance  and  on  his  way  picked  up  a 
huge  dog-whip.  Reaching  the  stables,  he 
ordered  his  horse  and  paced  madly  to  and 
fro  fuming  and  cursing  till  at  last  he  was 
mounted. 

Meanwhile  the  footman  had  returned  to 
the  tenants  to  say  Mr.  Balstone  should  see 
them.  Not  knowing  what  was  to  happen 
next,  they  could  do  naught  but  keep  all  their 
attention  fixed  on  the  door  of  the  castle,  ex- 
pecting every  moment  their  landlord  should 
appear.  But  he  did  not  come  that  way. 
Instead,  he  rode  around  from  the  yard  and, 
keeping  his  horse  on  the  soft,  green  sward, 
came  noiselessly  on  their  rear.  The  first  in- 
dication of  his  presence  was  a  scream  from  old 
Hushian  as  he  was  dealt  a  heavy  blow  from 
the  butt  of  the  dog-whip.  The  crowd  scat- 
tered to  right  and  left  as  the  savage  blows 
rained  down  on  these  poor  defenceless  men. 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS. 


83 


"You  curs!"  roared  the  master  of  Balstone 
Castle,  "how  dare  you  come  to  my  door? 
How  dare  you  come  to  speak  to  me?  Be- 
gone from  here  this  instant  and  pay  your 
rents,  and  be  thankful  that  I  take  them  in- 
stead of  hunting  every  damn  one  of  you  off  my 
property !" 

The  horse  stamped  and  plunged  about  as 
his  rider  struck  out  on  all  sides.  Suddenly 
the  reins  and  whip  were  seized  by  Ned  O'Brien. 

"Stop  that!"  he  called  out.  "We  are  not 
curs  to  be  whipped  like  this;  we  are  men!" 

A  struggle  began  for  possession  of  the  whip. 
Someone  rushed  forward  to  catch  the  horse, 
so  as  to  give  Ned  more  freedom,  but  the 
latter  cried: 

"Leave  him  alone!  This  is  my  fight.  I 
am  to  blame  for  all  this  an'  I  want  only 
myself  to  suffer  for  it!"  He  then  released 
the  reins  and  seizing  the  whip  in  both  hands 
wrenched  it  from  its  owner.  His  first 
thought  was  to  give  a  sound  trashing  to 
Balstone,  but  he  changed  his  mind  and  flung 
the  whip  into  the  shrubbery  that  grew  close  by. 

Balstone  was  speechless  with  fury.  For  a 
few  moments  he  sat  as  one  transfixed,  while 
Ned  jumped  to  the  horse's  head  again  and 
seized  the  reins.  At  last  the  rider  recovered 
himself  sufficiently  to  command: 

"Let  go  my  horse  instantly,  you  damned 
scoundrel!" 

"I  will  if  you  let  us  go  as  we  came  —  in 
peace,"  was  the  answer. 


84 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


''Let  go  my  horse !"  came  still  more  fiercely 
from  the  other,  as  he  levelled  the  shining 
revolver  at  O'Brien's  head.  A  murmur  of 
horror  broke  from  the  crowd  of  tenants,  but 
before  one  of  them  could  come  to  the  assis- 
tance of  their  leader,  he  had  seized  Balstone's 
wrist  and  pointed  the  weapon  upwards. 
Again  the  horse  plunged.  Again  the  struggle 
began ;  and  again  the  pampered  tyrant  proved 
no  match  for  the  hardy  son  of  toil. 

Balstone  gave  in! 

"Look  here,  O'Brien !"  he  gasped,  "you 
must  leave  my  lands  at  once  and  take  this 
rabble  with  you!" 

"We  only  came  to  speak  reasonably  with 
you,  an'  this  is  how  you  met  us!" 

"How  dare  you  talk  to  me  like  that!  Take 
yourself  and  these  fellows  off!" 

"Put  aside  the  revolver,  thin,  an'  we'll  go!" 

"I  will  not.  I'll  hold  it  in  my  hand,  but 
will  not  use  it,  unless  it's  necessary." 

"What  guarantee  have  I  for  that?" 

"My  word  of  honour  as  a  gentleman!" 

Ned  smiled  at  the  expression  from  such  a 
source. 

"I'll  chance  it,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  and 
forthwith  released  the  hand  he  held  and 
walked  ahead. 

He  turned  after  a  little  and  said: 

"Mr,  Balstone,  remember  the  tenants 
came  here  by  my  advice  an'  I  hope  you  will 
visit  the  consequences  on  me  alone." 

"By  G  !  to  your  death  you  will  regret 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  85 


this  day's  work!  Proceed I"  And  like  sheep 
he  drove  them  through  the  gate  at  the  point 
of  his  revolver.  They  were  overcome  by 
the  power  that,  in  this  world,  wrong  often 
possesses  over  right. 

Outside  the  gate,  the  tenants  were  dispers- 
ing to  their  respective  homes;  but  Ned 
walked  sullenly  to  the  centre  of  the  road. 
He  well  knew  his  fate  was  sealed  anyhow 
and  determined  to  show  a  last  piece  of  in- 
dependence. Once  on  the  highway  he  again 
faced  the  landlord. 

"Won't you  go  home?"  demanded Balstone; 
"and  I  swear  you  won't  have  a  home  to  go  to 
for  long!" 

"Fm  now  on  the  public  road,"  returned 
Ned.  "You  could  order  me  off  your  own 
land,  but  I  have  as  much  right  to  be  here  as 
you  have!" 

"You  insolent  scoundrel!"  Ned  had  only 
time  to  strike  the  revolver  upwards  when  it 
went  off.  The  frightened  horse  dashed  away 
and  threw  the  rider  heavily  against  the  wall; 
and  as  he  lay  there  unconscious  the  first  to 
run  to  his  assistance  was  the  man  whom,  a 
short  time  before,  he  had  sworn  to  make  a 
homeless  wanderer!  Yet  people  call  the  Irish 
savages ! ! 

Ned  O'Brien  was  arrested  for  attempting 
the  life  of  William  Balstone!  Even  a  packed 
jury  could  not  be  got  to  agree  on  the  verdict 
and  from  assizes  to  assizes  the  case  had  to 
be  adjourned.    A  scrap  of  news  from  wife 


86 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


or  child  or  neighbour  never  reached  him  during 
all  the  months  of  his  confinement,  and  when, 
at  last,  a  "nolle  prosequi"  was  entered,  and 
he  was  unexpectedly  released,  he  turned  his 
steps  to  where  his  home  once  had  been.  He 
found  only  a  roofless  cabin,  a  weed-grown 
garden.  But  saddest  news  of  all,  his  wife, 
tortured  by  anxiety  and  almost  broken- 
hearted, had  fallen  ill  shortly  after  his  arrest. 
In  a  raging  fever  she  was  thrown  on  the  road- 
side, and  died  the  very  night  of  the  evic- 
tion. 

Sorrow  and  anger  drove  O'Brien  almost 
mad,  and  he  rushed  to  Balstone  Castle  to 
avenge  the  murder  of  his  wife.  Ever  after- 
wards he  blessed  God  that  he  did  not  meet 
the  landlord,  or  perhaps,  he  too,  would  be  a 
murderer  from  that  day.  But  in  his  frenzy 
he  cursed  the  Balstones,  and  prayed  that  he 
would  see  their  castle  roofless  and  the  crows 
flying  through  its  windows. 

"An'  there  it  is,  Father/ 1  concluded  the 
poor  old  stonebreaker.  "I  have  seen  what 
I  prayed  for,  an'  whin,  I  first  saw  it,  I  felt  I 
had  done  a  great  wrong,  an'  ever  since  whin 
I  pass  the  gate  I  ask  God  to  forgive  thim  an' 
me!" 

"Your  curse  was  in  anger/ '  I  said,  "and 
likely  had  nothing  to  do  with  their  downfall. 
I  believe  rather  it  was  the  just  vengeance  of 
God  that  overtook  them.  But  what  of  your 
son?" 

"My  son,  Father,  went  to  America,  an' 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS, 


87 


but  for  him  'tis  a  hard  struggle  I'd  have  to 
get  along.  Many's  the  father  and  mother 
have  reason  to  bless  the  children  that  were 
driven  from  their  native  land  as  my  boy 
was.  But  thank  God!  Father,  I'll  see  him 
soon.  The  Estate  Commissioners  have  pur- 
chased the  property  an'  I'm  gettin'  back  my 
ould  place,  an'  my  son  is  comin'  home  to 
look  after  me  an'  keep  me  for  the  rest  of  my 
days !  Sure  God  |is  kinder  to  me  than  I  deserve . 9 1 

"What  do  you  think  of  that,  Major?  Do 
you  agree  that  the  stone-breaker  got  more 
than  he  deserved ?"  asked  MacSharry. 

"I  do  not!"  said  the  Major  emphatically. 

"I  have  another  story/ '  said  the  Doctor; 
"but  perhaps,  Major,  you  have  enough  for 
the  present?  Meanwhile  it  may  do  you  no 
harm  to  consider  whether  you  would  be  as 
lenient  towards  Balstone  as  O'Brien  was  or 
would  you  rather  take  a  hand  in  the  lawless- 
ness you  so  vehemently  condemn?' ' 

Major  Brownson  looked  at  him  but  said 
nothing. 


'THE  TALE  OF  A  BEGGAR." 


HE   three    of    us  were   again  seated 


A  at  Dr.  MacSharry's  cheerful  fire- 
side. Outside  the  wind  blew  in  fitful  gusts 
around  the  angles  of  the  house  and  whistled 
and  moaned  through  the  tree-tops ;  and  every 
now  and  again  dashed  the  rain  against  the 
window-panes.  As  we  listened  to  the  storm 
the  fireside  seemed  to  have  added  chaim  and 
to  be  an  extra  cosy  place,  so  we  settled  our- 
selves for  a  comfortable  chat.  However,  the 
wind  and  rain  continually  diverted  our  at- 
tention, and  conversation  flagged. 

"What  about  that  story  you  promised  us, 
Doctor?' '  I  ventured  at  last.  "We  want 
something  special  to  interest  us." 

"I  don't  know  will  what  I  have  to  say 
prove  very  interesting,"  returned  MacSharry. 
"However,  if  you  want  it,  you  shall  have  it 
with  pleasure." 

"Something  on  the  same  lines  as  the  one 
we  listened  to  the  other  evening,  I  suppose?" 
suggested  the  Major. 

"Well,  not  altogether,"  said  the  Doctor. 
"The  same  tune,  though,  but  different  words. 

"That  tune  is  justification  of  outrages  in 
Ireland?"  and  the  Major  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders. 

"Oh!  God  forbid  we'd  encourage  outrages, 
Major,"  I  hastened  to  explain.  "I  think 
you  don't  exactly  grasp  our  point." 


90 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


"Well,  now,  gentlemen,  my  point  is  this," 
Major  Brownson  argued.  "Take  a  man,  as 
I  have  said  on  a  previous  occasion,  who  has 
a  large  farm  or  who  takes  one  for  eleven 
months.  He  pays  for  it  and,  therefore,  has 
a  right  to  use  it.  Then  ignorant  fellows, 
filled  with  envy,  threaten  him,  unless  he  gives 
up  the  farm  and  suffers  enormous  loss;  and 
when,  very  rightly,  too,  he  refuses  to  obey 
them,  they  knock  down  his  walls  and  drive 
his  stock  helter-skelter  through  the  country! 
Yet,  you  two  gentlemen  of  responsible  pos- 
itions demand  my  sympathy  for  such  pro- 
ceeding! In  the  name  of  common  sense,  do 
try  to  be  rational  ?" 

"I  see  your  point  quite  well,"  said  the 
Doctor,  "but  I  don't  think  it's  my  place  to 
argue  the  morality  of  cattle-driving."  And 
he  looked  sideways  at  me. 

"I'm  sure  I'm  not  going  to  do  it,  Doctor," 
I  said.  "All  I  wish  to  state  is  we're  not 
trying  to  justify  outrages,  but  to  show  they're 
the  result  of  previous  unjust  treatment  of 
the  people." 

'That's  quite  right  —  that's  quite  true!" 
and  fire  gleamed  in  MacSharry's  eyes  as  he 
continued:  "These  outrages  are  the  natural 
outcome  of  the  method  of  land  tenure  that 
obtained  here  and  the  form  of  government 
by  which  the  country  unfortunately  was  ruled ! 
I  tell  you,  Major,  a  hostile  gentry,  an  alien 
rule,  an  irrational  system  of  education,  have 
left  Ireland  as  you  see  it  —  though  it  seems 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS. 


91 


to  me  you  see  it  as  from  afar  off;  and  what 
wonder  is  it,  if  the  general  body  of  the  Irish 
people  are  discontented,  and  a  few,  who  cause 
you  to  condemn  all,  tired  of  waiting  for  justice 
to  be  done  them,  are  tempted  to  other  means 
for  obtaining  it?" 

"Nice  means  they  use,  too!"  said  Brown- 
son  grimly. 

"Hardly  nice,  I  admit,"  returned  Mac- 
Sharry,  "but  of  such  a  character  as  at  least 
to  arouse  the  curiosity  of  the  Government 
as  to  the  real  cause  of  them,  and  then,  by 
removing  the  cause,  restore  Ireland  to  a 
normal,  happy,  prosperous  condition!" 

"Very  fine  —  very  fine  —  in  theory!"  was 
the  Major's  comment.  "I  think  you  have 
now  prepared  the  way  for  your  story,  Doctor, 
and  I  can  make  a  good  shot  at  the  drift  of 
it.    So,  go  ahead,  sir!" 

"Convince  a  man  against  his  will  —  you 
know  the  rest  of  it.  I  think  your  case  is 
absolutely  incurable,  Major,  but  I'll  try  the 
story  on  you,  as  it's  a  demonstration  of  my 
argument.  Thus,  as  in  the  body  pain  is 
caused  by  physical  defect  and  ceases  when 
the  cause  is  removed,  so  in  Ireland  discon- 
tent follows  harsh  treatment;  removal  of 
harsh  treatment  restores  happiness  and  pros- 
perity." 

"I  am  going  to  tell  you  an  experience  of  my 
own,"  he  said.  "It  is  one  I  have  never  re- 
lated before,  and  I  must  ask  you  not  to  re- 
peat it  until  either  I  give  permission  or  am 
dead." 


92 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


We  readily  gave  the  promise,  little  think- 
ing that  less  than  a  year  should  release  us 
from  the  obligation  of  silence.  God  rest  Dr. 
MacSharry's  soul!   He  was  a  good  man. 

"I  remember  one  Sunday  afternoon,  a 
couple  of  years  after  I  had  come  here,"  con- 
tinued the  Doctor,  "just  such  an  evening  as 
this.  The  rain  was  coming  down  in  torrents 
and  the  wind  howling.  I  hoped  no  one  would 
need  my  services  till  the  wind  and  rain  had 
ceased  at  any  rate,  and  was  just  settling  my- 
self in  this  armchair  for  a  read  and  a  smoke, 
when  a  resounding  rat-tat-tat  on  the  knocker 
made  me  jump,  and  a  few  moments  later  my 
motherly  housekeeper  entered: 

"Wethin  now,  isn't  it  too  bad,"  she  began, 
"an'  it  such  a  terrible  evenin'?  Mrs.  Delarey's 
son  is  abroad,  sir,  to  say  she's  very  bad  en- 
tirely an'  for  you  to  go  over  at  once." 

I  was  surprised  at  being  called  to  Mrs. 
Delarey's  as  I  had  seen  her,  apparently  in 
perfect  health,  at  Mass  that  morning.  In 
fact,  I  always  had  taken  particular  notice  of 
her,  as  in  her  snowy  cap,  bound  with  a  green 
silk  band,  her  dark-brown  dress  and  black- 
hooded  cloak,  she  seemed  to  me  the  very 
ideal  of  an  Irish  mother;  and  then  her  fine, 
clear-cut  features  and  stately  walk  might 
well  have  been  those  of  a  queen.  Of  course 
there  were  many  others  as  good  as  she,  but 
no  one  so  distinguished  looking,  or  who  so 
much  claimed  my  attention. 

The  answers  of  her  son  to  my  inquiries  led 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS. 


93 


me  to  think  something  serious  was  the  mat- 
ter, and  I  set  out  at  once  on  horse-back  — 
I  rode  a  lot  in  those  days. 

An  easy  trot  through  the  darkness  of  the 
wood  and  then  a  gallop  over  the  open  bog- 
road  brought  me  to  the  head  of  the  hmthrin, 
and  soon  I  was  being  assisted  to  the  ground 
and  guided  over  the  fern-strewn  "street'' 
to  the  door  of  the  patient's  house. 

"There  it  was,  Major,  an  Irish  home.r 
You  are  drawing  your  income,  sir,  from  such 
people,  and  I'd  lay  a  wager  you  don't  know 
what  their  homes  are  like!  How  can  you 
sit  in  judgment  on  them?"  and  the  Doctor 
was  very  earnest.  "There  it  was:  the  shin- 
ing tinware  on  the  whitewashed  walls  re- 
flecting the  light  of  the  bright  turf-tire  that 
blazed  on  the  hearth.  The  dresser  spotless 
and  on  its  lowest  shelf  a  row  of  jugs  and  mugs; 
its  second  and  third  shelves  adorned  with 
the  old-fashioned  blue  plates,  and  on  the 
top  one,  three  immense  dishes.  The  well- 
scrubbed  table  beside  the  door  was  laid  for 
a  simple  supper;  a  great  chest  in  the  corner 
beyond  the  fire  and  the  settle,  a  seat  by  day, 
a  bed  by  night,  under  the  window!  Nothing 
superfluous,  nothing  that  was  not  needed, 
but  everything  there  told  of  the  love  cf  the 
household  for  comfort  and  cleanliness,  if 
only  they  were  left  in  peace  and  got  a  fair 
chance.  Yet  that  very  home  was  condemned 
to  be  torn  down,  its  occupants  to  be  driven 
up  the  mountain  side,  in  order,  forsooth. 


94 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


that  the  farm  be  turned  to  better  use!  To 
fatten  the  cattle  and  sheep  of  a  rich,  avari- 
cious landlord!!  Ah!  Major  Brownson,  I 
have  seen  this  sort  of  thing  so  often  that  my 
sympathy,  not  only  as  an  Irishman,  but  as  a 
man,  is  wholly  with  the  people,  and  is  it 
any  wonder,  I  ask?" 

The  Doctor  looked  about  him,  but  as  we 
made  no  comment,  he  continued: 

"  Pardon  me  for  giving  way  to  my  feelings 
so  much,  but  I  can't  help  it  sometimes.  *  *  * 
I  went  into  the  sick  room  and  when  Mrs. 
Delarey  had  welcomed  me  (they  never  for- 
get that),  she  told  her  daughter  to  leave  us 
and  'pull  the  door  after  her/ 

"Well,  Mrs.  Delarey, M  I  said  when  we  were 
quite  alone,  "how  are  you  feeling?  Have  you 
any  pain?" 

"Doctor,  a  mhuirnin"  she  replied.  "I 
hope  you  won't  be  vexed  wTith  me,  but  thanks 
be  to  God  an'  His  Holy  Mother,  I'm  neither 
sick  nor  sore!" 

I  was  certainly  astounded  at  this  infor- 
mation. 

"Sure,  I  knew  you'd  be  vexed  with  me," 
she  went  on,  as  she  looked  at  my  face,  "an' 
why  wouldn't  you,  to  be  brought  out  in  such 
terrible  bad  weather;  but  what  could  I  do? 
I  have  a  heavy  load  on  me  mind,  and  didn't 
like  sindin'  for  the  priest,  because  he'd  be 
bringin'  the  Blessed  Sacrament  with  him  on 
a  vain  journey.  An'  I  could  think  of  no  one 
else  to  tell  but  you,  a  stoir,  for  I  know  you're 
honest  an'  '11  know  what's  best." 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS. 


95 


I  knew  by  her  anxiety  that  she  had  really 
good  reason  to  send  for  me,  but  still  did  not 
care  to  have  more  than  my  own  professional 
responsibilities  shifted  on  to  my  shoulders. 

"Oh!  if  it's  something  that's  on  your  mind," 
I  said,  "you'd  better  tell  the  priest.  I  can 
send  him  up  on  my  way  back  and  explain 
that  he's  not  to  bring  the  Blessed  Sacrament." 

"Ora!  Stop  a  stoirl"  she  exclaimed.  "Sure 
there's  not  that  much  time  to  be  spared! 
Wait  till  you  hear  what  I  have  to  say." 

"And  now,"  said  MacSharry,  "I  must 
make  a  digression  and  describe  the  condition 
of  affairs  here  at  the  time." 

It  seems  that  long  before  I  came  here,  old 
Edward  Cartley  found  farming  a  very  pro- 
fitable investment  for  his  immense  wealth, 
and  having  all  the  domain  property  occupied 
sought  additional  farms.  He  consulted  Jack 
Merlyn,  his  agent  and  stock-master,  on  the 
matter  and  was  recommended  by  the  latter 
to  transplant  the  tenants  from  the  good  lands 
they  held  to  the  mountain  and  bog  and 
'carrigeens',  thereby  giving  himself  much 
additional  grazing.  Cartley  had  some  scruple 
about  this  arrangement,  and  did  not  care 
at  once  give  his  consent  to  it,  but  eventually, 
following  the  example  of  the  neighbouring 
landlords,  he  told  the  agent  he  might  do  as 
he  desired. 

The  clearance  began,  and  the  unfortunate 
people  saw  their  homesteads  razed  to  the 
ground,  and  the  lands  they  had  drained  and 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


tilled  and  manured  turned  into  great  grazing 
ranches  for  another. 

It  was  commonly  said  that  young  Cartley 
strongly  objected  to  this  treatment  of  the 
tenants.  His  objection  was  unheeded,  and 
as  a  result  he  left  home  and  got  a  commission 
in  the  army.  The  transplanting  continued 
during  the  following  years,  but  the  dreadful 
business  was  conducted  in  such  a  fashion 
that  the  tenants  were  driven  to  no  positive 
outbreak;  and,  besides,  they  well  knew,  from 
the  sad  experience  of  others,  that  resistance 
meant  greater  evils. 

One  day  old  Cartley  got  a  fit  of  apoplexy. 
I  was  called  to  his  bedside,  but  on  my  way  I 
met  Fr.  Connell  returning  and  he  told  me 
I  was  late.  The  man  had  already  gone  to 
give  an  account  of  his  stewardship. 

I've  never  seen  so  small  a  funeral.  His 
own  servants,  a  handful  of  the  neighbouring 
gentry,  the  priest  and  myself  —  that  was  all. 
There  was  no  mourner,  as  his  son  and  grand- 
daughter, his  only  relatives,  were,  at  that 
time,  in  India.  Young  Edward  Cartley  was 
now  the  landlord,  and  hopes  beat  high  in 
the  tenant's  hearts;  but  on  hearing  of  his 
father's  death,  he  merely  informed  the  agent 
that  he  had  no  present  intention  of  returning 
and  gave  instructions  as  to  how  he  wished 
the  estate  to  be  managed.  What  these  in- 
structions were  you  will  learn  later. 

The  agent  (much  to  his  regret,  he  stated, 
and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  had  always  stated) 


HE  WAS  ACTING  ON  THE  ORDERS  OF  COL.  CARTLEY, 
THE  AGENT  TOOK  CARE  TO  SAY, 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  97 


continued  the  transplanting,  and  he  took  care 
to  make  it  known  that  he  was  acting  on  the 
orders  of  Col.  Cartley.  But  the  climax  was 
reached  when  the  whole  village  of  Ballynahash 
got  notice  that  their  time  had  come.  They 
were  to  go,and  not  one  by  one  either,  but 
all  together! 

"Of  course,"  said  the  sleek  agent,  "Col. 
Cartley  does  not  wish  to  treat  you  harshly. 
He  is  allowing  you  some  months  to  prepare 
new  houses  and  is  giving  you  holdings  on 
another  part  of  the  property.' '  "Of  course/ 1 
said  the  Doctor,  sarcastically;  "of  course  he 
was!  New  holdings  among  the  rocks  of  Cruc- 
follav  and  on  the  mountain  waste  lands !!" 

Ballynahash  was  a  populous  village,  and 
as  there  is  strength  in  numbers,  there  was 
a  strong  rumour  of  trouble.  The  agent  was 
nagging  at  them  for  weeks  to  go,  and  the 
more  peacefully  and  quietly  they  would  go 
the  better  for  them.  Such  was  the  state  of 
things  when  suddenly  almost  without  warn- 
ing, Col.  Cartley  came  home.  The  interfe- 
rences of  the  agent  at  once  ceased,  but  the 
people,  filled  with  the  thought  of  coming 
woe  and  sorrow,  did  not  seem  to  notice  that. 
A  few  were  talking  of  making  some  appeal 
to  the  landlord,  but  a  couple  of  weeks  passed 
and  that  appeal  was  not  made.  A  very  few, 
five  or  six  young  men,  I  should  think,  were 
for  taking  drastic  measures,  and  the  wildest 
rumours  went  abroad.  They  seemed  to  have 
reached  everybody,  except  Col.  Cartley,  whom 
they  most  of  all  concerned. 


98 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


Now,  gentlemen,  we  return  to  Mrs.  Dela- 
rey's  bedside. 

"Whin  I  was  comin'  from  Mass,  to-day, 
Doctor/ '  she  told  me,  "I  got  a  lift  in  the  cart 
from  Tom  Curtiss's  son.  Joe  Dillon  was 
along  with  him,  and  the  two  were  sittin'  in 
front  an'  I  was  behind.  I  have  the  name  o' 
bein'  very  deaf,  a  stoir,  but  I'm  not  as  bad 
as  they  think,  an'  so  I  caught  a  word  o'  what 
they  were  sayin'  here  and  there.  Maybe  it 
wasn't  right  for  me  to  listen,  but,  sure,  they 
knew  I  was  there,  an'  why  did  they  speak? 

"Is  it  all  settled?"  says  one. 

"Tis  so,"  says  the  other;  an'  thin  they 
whispered,  an'  I  only  heard  "Rathmore  House 
this  evenin'."  Well,  I  never  thought  of  any- 
thing serious  in  all  that,  but  I  met  the  Rath- 
more  butler  after  comin'  off  the  cart,  an'  in 
the  course  o'  talk,  he  told  me  there  was  to  be 
a  great  dinner  that  night  in  Rathmore,  and 
Col.  Cartley  would  be  in  it.  Like  a  flash  it 
crossed  my  mind  why  the  two  lads  were 
talkin'  o'  Rathmore  that's  such  a  long  way 
our  this;  an'  puttin'  that  an'  what  everyone 
is  hearin'  together,  I  began  to  fear  that  some- 
thing is  goin'  to  happen  Master  Eddy.  I 
tried  to  put  it  out  o'  me  head,  but  'twas  trou- 
blin'  me  all  day.  I  didn't  see  any  use  tellin' 
me  own  lads,  for  what  could  they  do,  an' 
sure  'twould  be  hard  to  expect  thim  to  take 
any  trouble  for  the  man  they  believe  is  goin' 
to  evict  thim.  In  troth,  Doctor,  I  don't  be- 
lieve anything  bad  o'  the  Colonel  myself, 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS. 


99 


for  he  was  a  nice,  gintle  boy  an'  very  kind  to 
everyone  long  ago.  There's  a  mistake  some- 
where an'  he's  not  to  blame.  Don't  let  any- 
thing happen  him,  sir;  bad  work  is  bad!  I 
was  thinkin'  o'  goin'  down  to  the  priest,  but 
I  knew  I  wouldn't  be  let  out  in  the  rain,  and 
while  ago  I  thought  o'  yourself.  I  fell  down 
forninst  the  fire  an'  they  thought  I  fainted. 

<uOra!  What  ails  you,  mother?"  says  they. 

"'Sind  for  the  doctor,'  says  I;  'I  want  him 
badly,  an'  don't  mind  bringin'  the  priest  till 
we  see  what  the  doctor  thinks  o'  me.'  They 
carried  me  into  bed,  an'  now,  a  stoir,  you  have 
the  load  that  was  on  my  mind,  an'  if  you  think 
there's  any  grounds  for  my  fears,  you'll  do  the 
best  you  can!" 

Knowing  all  I  did,  I  felt  there  were  "grounds 
for  her  fears,"  so  giving  a  few  instructions 
about  Mrs.  Delarey's  supposed  illness  and 
promising  to  send  up  a  "bottle,"  I  hurried 
away.  As  I  galloped  homewards,  a  new  diffi- 
culty presented  itself.  If  I  went  directly  to 
Col.  Cartley,  I  reasoned  (not  knowing  the 
Irish  then  as  I  do  now,  Major),  I  thought  I 
should  lose  the  confidence  of  the  neighbour- 
hood, and,  of  course,  be  ruined,  as  the  mis- 
erable salary  attaching  to  my  dispensaries 
could  scarce  support  me.  Looking  back  from 
now,  I,  of  course,  see  that  I  could  have  gone 
straight  to  Cartley  Hall,  and  not  be  a  bit 
the  worse  in  consequence,  but  being  a  young, 
impetuous  man,  I  did  a  very  strange,  foolish 
thing. 


100 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


"Well,  well,  well!  Another  sick-call,  and 
on  such  an  evening!"  I  called  out  as  I  reached 
my  own  door.  That  was  to  disarm  the  cu- 
riosity of  my  house-keeper  as  to  my  going 
out  so  soon  again.  I  quickly  procured  an 
old  canvas  sack  from  the  coach-house,  threw 
an  old  suit  of  clothes  into  it,  mounted  and 
was  away  again.  As  I  rode  by  Cartley  Hall 
gates,  I  detected  the  figures  of  two  men.  I 
suspected  they  were  there  to  learn  if  the 
Colonel  went  to  the  dinner-party.  I  saluted 
them,  but  received  no  response  and  trotted 
on.  Further  on  the  road  I  met  two  or  three 
young  fellows,  but  owing  to  the  darkness 
could  nor  recognize  them;  I  spoke  to  them 
that  they  might  know  me,  but  they,  too,  re- 
mained silent.  At  last  I  was  beyond  the 
domain  and,  riding  a  short  distance,  turned 
in  an  old  "boithrin"  that  led  to  an  untenanted, 
house.  I  put  the  horse  in  there,  pulled  on  the 
old  clothes,  giving  them  a  tear  here  and  there, 
smeared  my  face  with  soot  from  the  chimney 
and  with  a  couple  of  sods  of  turf  in  my  bag  and 
a  heavy  walking  stick  was  ready  for  my  ad- 
venture. In  my  college  days  I  had  taken 
part  in  some  amateur  theatricals,  and  the 
little  experience  thus  gained  now  stood  to  me 
as  I  played  the  part  of  a  beggar. 

Back  towards  the  wood  and  by  the  great 
high  wall,  I  made  my  way.  Unknown  I 
stumbled  by  the  fellows  I  had  ridden  past  a 
short  time  before.  I  reached  the  gate  and 
seating  myself,  fell  to  searching  my  pocket  as 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS,  101 


though  for  a  piece  of  tobacco.    The  two 

watchers  came  over  to  me. 

|N  "What  are  you  doin'  here?"  asked  one  of 

them  in  a  disguised  voice. 

t-k" Resting'  myself,  a  mhuirnin"  I  whined, 

"I'm  tired  an'  nigh  famished  with  the  hunger 

Maybe  you'd  have  something  to  spare  for 

a  poor  man?" 

"Better  for  you  to  go  to  the  village/ '  he 
returned;  "you'll  be  sure  to  get  something 
there." 

"I  dunno,"  said  I,  "if  I  wint  up  to  the  'big 
house'  here,  would  they  give  me  a  bite  to  eat? 
Sure,  worse  than  refuse,  they  can't." 

"Couldn't  they,  now?"  said  the  second 
watcher.  "Couldn't  they  set  the  dogs  on 
you?" 

"Musha,  sure  they  wouldn't  be  as  bad  as 
that,"  I  replied. 

"Aisily  known  you're  a  stranger!"  said  No 2. 

"The  best  thing  for  you  to  do  is  go  to  the 
village!"  advised  No.  L  Then  the  other 
whispered  him  some  thing  and  the  first 
continued:  "Well,  try  the  'big  house'  if  you've 
a  mind  to,but  I'm  thinkin'  you'll  be  sorry." 

"I  will,  thin,"  I  grunted.  And  without 
more  ado,  took  my  bag  on  my  back  and  hob- 
bled in  the  gateway  and  up  the  avenue.  In 
the  course  of  the  converstion,  I  had  recog- 
nized the  two  of  them  and  was  sorry  for  it. 

As  I  reached  the  Hall,  Col.  Cartley  was 
descending  the  steps  to  the  waiting  carriage. 
Miss    Cartley    was    not    with     him,  for 


102 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


some  reason  or  other.  (The  Colonel 
was  a  widower,  by  the  way.)  When 
he  stepped  on  the  terrace,  I  accosted  him 
and  begged  some  assistance;  then  in  my  na- 
tural voice  I  asked  "the  favor  of  an  inter- 
view as  I  had  something  of  grave  importance 
to  communicate/ 9  I  had  met  him  twice,  but 
only  for  a  few  moments  on  each  occasion; 
still  I  hoped  he  might  recognize  my  voice. 
I  expect  his  Indian  training  had  taught  him 
not  to  ow  surprise  at  such  happenings, 
at  any  rate,  bidding  me  follow  him,  he  turned 
back  to  the  house,  but  stood  just  inside  the 
door. 

"I'm  in  a  hurry,  just  now,"  he  said,  "what 
do  you  want  of  me?" 

"Don't  let  it  be  seen  that  you  know  me, 
Colonel,  if  you  do,"  I  said,"  but  take  me  to 
the  library."  He  looked  me  up  and  down  and 
then  led  the  way.  Somehow  that  has  al- 
ways struck  me  as  a  poor  compliment. 

Once  we  were  alone  in  the  library,  I  made 
myself  known. 

"Can  it  be  possibly  you,  Dr.  MacSharry?" 
he  cried,  in  his  amazement. 

"Speak  easy,  for  goodness  sake,"  I  said, 
"lest  the  servants  know  who  I  am." 

"Have  you  taken  leave  of  your  senses, 
Doctor?"  he  asked. 

"Not  at  all,  sir;  though  I  confess  it  looks 
like  it."  I  then  briefly  told  him  all  I  knew, 
but  gave  no  names.  "And  it  is  likely  that 
on  your  return  to-night  the  attempt  will  be 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  103 


made,"  I  concluded.  "It  may  not  even  be 
safe  to  go,  and  I  have  come  in  this  disguise 
to  warn  you  to  remain  at  home." 

" After  what  you  tell  me,  Doctor,  I  am  now 
determined  on  going.  I  cannot  allow  myself 
to  be  terrorised  in  this  way."  And  after  all 
my  trouble,  this  was  the  result! 

'Then,  Colonel,  you  are  doing  a  great 
wrong  not  only  to  yourself  but  to  your 
daughter.  If  the  worst  happens,  and  your 
body  be  carried  home  here,  I  ask  you  to  pic- 
ture to  yourself  her  misery;  and  think  fur- 
ther how  heavy  a  burthen  her  life  will  be,  if 
she  must  go  through  it  without  you  to  guide 
and  protect  her."  I  saw  him  wince  at  that, 
for  he  loved  his  daughter,  and  I  forth- 
with pursued  that  line  of  argument,  till  at 
last  he  consented  to  remain  indoors  that  night. 

"But,"  he  burst  forth,  "why  on  earth  am 
/  attacked?  What  injury  have  /  ever  done 
my  tenants?  They  won't  surely  punish  me 
for  the  sins  of  my  father;  they  know  I  left 
home  on  account  of  his  treatment  of  them?" 

It  was  now  my  turn  to  be  astonished. 

"Since  you  became  master,  Colonel,"  I 
informed  him,  "the  same  method  of  transplan- 
ting and  evicting  tenants  has  gone  on  as 
before  —  at  least  so  I  believe  —  and  I  can 
myself  speak  for  the  last  two  years,  and  I 
assure  you  I  have  been  a  witness  of  heartrend- 
ing scenes  conducted  on  your  property!  Just 
now  the  people  of  Ballynahash  have  got 
notice  that  they  are  to  be  cleared  within  the 


104 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


next  few  months,  and  that,  I  think,  is  the 
cause  of  the  present  dreadful  business." 

"My  God!"  he  cried,  "and  I  never  knew 
a  word  of  this.  I  left  the  management  of 
everything  to  Merlyn.  He  encouraged  me 
against  my  father  long  ago  and  I  thought  him 
kind-hearted  and  trustworthy.  The  damn 
rascal,  I  see  now  why  he  appeared  so  flurried 
when  I  walked  suddenly  into  his  office!  I 
trusted  him  so  much,  Doctor,  that  I  made  ab- 
solutely no  inquiry  since  I  came  home,  though 
I  wondered  at  the  scarcity  of  farm-houses. 
Ton  my  word,  he  shall  account  for  his  hypo- 
crisy!" 

"And  was  there  no  increase  in  the  amounts 
placed  to  your  credit?"  I  inquired. 

"Increase!  Why,  there  was  a  decrease, 
man,  which  he  explained  by  the  expense  of 
restoring  tenants  and  reducing  rents,  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  instructions  I  had  sent  him 
as  soon  as  I  succeeded  to  the  property!" 

"He  must  have  feathered  his  own  nest  nice- 
ly, Colonel,  at  your  and  the  tenants'  expense," 
I  could  not  help  saying. 

"This  all  comes  from  not  attending  to  my 
own  business!  Well,"  he  said  sadly,  "I  can 
hardly  blame  those  poor  fellows  for  their 
awful  madness.  They  can  scarcely  be  said 
to  be  accountable  for  their  actions  because  of 
their  sufferings  —  though  they  might  have 
first  explained  affairs  to  me  directly."  Then 
he  looked  into  my  face.  "I  cannot  tell  you, 
Dr.  MacSharry,  how  sincerely  grateful  I  am 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS. 


105 


to  you  for  possibly  saving  my  life  and,  second- 
ly, letting  me  know  of  this  dreadful  mis- 
management of  my  property.  Believe  me, 
it  was  done  unknown  to  me  and  against  my 
written  instructions.  My  carriage  is  still 
at  the  door  and  you  will  give  me  pleasure  if 
you  will  let  me  send  it  home  with  you." 

"Thank  you,  Colonel,  but  that  would  undo 
my  evening's  work.  You  must  now  proceed 
to  kick  me  down  the  front  steps,  and  please 
do  it  yourself;  don't  let  the  servants  near  me 
lest  they  should  hurt." 

"Oh!  nonsense,  man!"  he  said. 

"Oh!  never  fear,  Til  make  a  suitable  re- 
turn. I'll  curse  you  and  yours  in  fine  style 
and  go  as  I  came  —  a  beggar!" 

He  demurred  for  a  time,  but  at  last,  en- 
tering into  the  spirit  of  the  thing,  kicked  me 
harmlessly  out  of  the  house. 

"Take  yourself  off!"  he  roared;  "you  con- 
founded impostor!  How  dare  you  come  to 
me  with  your  lying  stories  of  poverty  and  sick- 
ness?" 

"May  a  hundred  thousand  curses  light  on 
your  head,  night,  noon,  and  morning!"  I 
returned  from  a  safe  distance.  "May  your 
ginerations  to  come  taste  the  bitterness  of 
sorrow,  sickness  and  hunger  before  they  die!" 
and  so  I  continued  till  I  reached  the  gate. 

To  the  two  watchers,  who  were  still  there, 
I  gave  a  wonderful  recital  of  my  hardships 
and  stumbled  along  towards  the  village. 
When  some  distance  away,  I  got  over  the  wall 


106 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road  and  doubled 
back  through  the  fields.  In  a  little  streamlet 
I  washed  my  face  and  hands,  and  crawling 
under  the  hedges  reached  my  horse.  In  a 
few  moments  I  was  in  my  ordinary  attire 
and  mounting  reached  home  without  mishap. 
Long  into  the  night  I  sat  there  thinking  and 
laughing  at  the  strangest  life  drama  it  has 
ever  been  my  lot  to  take  part  in. 

And  as  the  doctor  gazed  into  the  glowing 
fire,  a  smile  played  around  the  corners  of  his 
mouth. 

"Finish  the  story,  MacSharry,"  said  the 
Major;  "surely  there's  an  end  to  it." 

"Why  everyone  about  here  knows  the  rest 
of  it! — but  I  forgot,  you're  both  strangers. 
Well,  the  Colonel  and  the  parish  priest 
got  the  tenants  together  next  day  and  every- 
thing was  explained,  from  the  instructions 
Col.  Cartley  gave  in  the  beginning  to  the  in- 
fernal scheming  of  the  agent.  The  rents 
were  reduced  to  make  up  for  past  wrongs, 
and  the  transplanted  and  evicted  restored. 
Later  the  landlord  sold  the  property  under  the 
'Ashbourne  Act,'  and  soon  the  tenants  will 
be  owners  of  'their  little  bit  of  Ireland/ 
They  pray  a  long  life  for  the  man  that  gave 
them  fair  play,  and  he  still  lives  among  us, 
the  most  respected  and  popular  landowner 
in  the  country/ 9  But  the  agent  Black  Jack 
Merlyn,  the  thief  of  the  world,  cleared  out/' 
added  MacSharry,  vehemently.  "He  left  the 
day  after  he  met  the  Colonel,  and  hasn't 
been  heard  of  since." 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  107 


"Of  course,  you  got  those  fellows  at  the 
gate  arrested?' '  suggested  Brown  son. 

"Arrested!  Why?  On  what  evidence?" 
MacSharry  shot  the  questions  out.  "Do  you 
know,  Major,  they're  now  the  two  most 
contented,  respectable  and  industrious  far- 
mers in  this  or  the  next  parish  ?" 

"And  the  beggar?"  I  inquired;"  did  they 
ever  learn  who  it  was?" 

"They're  still  looking  for  the  beggar!" 
chuckled  the  Doctor.    And  we  all  laughed. 


OFTEN  I  HAD  ADMIRED  THAT  SCENE . 


"CLIFFS  AND  SEA." 


"/^\NE  Sunday  a  year  or  so  ago,  when  I  was 
V-'  curate  in  Killcannor,"  said  Fr.  O' 
Hara  to  me,  "I  remember  a  little  experience 
of  mine  whose  very  recollection  gives  me 
pleasure  and  hope. 

It  was  an  ideal  Summer  evening,  and  after 
dinner  I  took  a  walk  along  the  cliffs,  whose 
heads  were  crowned  with  purple  heather  and 
bright  pinks  and  whose  feet  were  bathed  in 
the  whispering  waters  of  Killcannor  Bay." 

"Very  poetic  indeed !"  was  my  comment. 

"Ah!  is  that  so!  Perhaps  it  is;  I  sometimes 
get  that  way,  you  know.  —  Well  to  proceed 
with  the  poetry:  There  lay  the  lovely  bay, 
rich  by  nature  in  possibilities,  poor  through 
man's  lack  of  enterprise.  The  air  was  so 
beautifully  clear  that  the  *famaires  could  be 
seen  by  the  naked  eye  sitting  on  the  opposite 
cliffs  and  parading  the  promenade  at  Inch- 
beg;  and  the  hotels  and  cottages,  (whatever 
they  looked  like  on  close  inspection),  made 
a  very  pretty  picture  in  the  distance,  as  the 
sunshine,  falling  on  the  many  white  walls 
showed  them  in  bold  outline  against  the  dark 
green  background  of  the  hills  of  Clare;  and 
cliffs  and  hills  and  village  were  softly  duplica- 
ted in  the  calm  waters  beneath. 

Often  during  the  short  time  I  was  in  Kill- 
cannor, I  had  admired  the  scene  and  even  yet 
it  would  hold  all  my  attention.    A  slight 

Holiday  Makers 


110 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


movement  close  by  caused  me  to  look  around 
and  I  beheld  a  young  fellow  seated  on  a  soft 
bank,  the  moss  covered  fence  supporting  his 
back.  He  laid  the  book  he  had  been  read- 
ing face  downwards  beside  him  and  saluted 
me.  I  went  over  and  we  got  into  conversa- 
tion. I  found  him  to  be  one  of  that  happily 
increasing  band  that  will  send  the  life  blood 
coursing  freely  through  the  veins  of  Ireland, 
he  was  a  sterling  young  Irish  Irishman! 

Had  I  read  in  a  book  the  short  descrip- 
tion I  am  about  to  give  you  of  this  young 
man,  I  would  consider  it  considerably  ex- 
aggerated, but  I  assure  you  I  met  such  as 
I  describe  and  there  are  many  of  them. 

To  begin  with  he  was  reading  the  History 
of  Ireland  in  his  own  Irish  language,  and  was 
an  Irish  scholar  of  no  mean  sort  and  had 
almost  as  much  knowledge  of  English;  he 
could  read,  write  and  speak  the  two  langua- 
ges with  the  greatest  ease,  and  yet  he  was  an 
ordinary  country  boy,  the  son  of  a  carpenter 
that  lived  within  a  hundred  yards  of  where 
we  were.  What  a  pity,"  and  he  lowered  his 
voice,"  that  a  land,  producing  such  as  he, 
should  be  so  handicapped  in  the  race  of  nat- 
ions? Well,"  he  went  on,"  I  was  more  than 
agreeably  surprised  to  find  how  interesting- 
ly he  could  discuss  with  me  such  questions  as 
the  development  of  Irish  industry,  economical 
and  political  movements  and  the  value  of 
each  in  proportion  to  the  money  expended 
and  the  resultant  gain. 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS. 


Ill 


As  I  was  not  a  very  fluent  Irish  speaker  we 
were  compelled  after  the  first  few  phrases  to 
use  English  and  my  companion  spoke  it  with 
a  fine  soft  brogue.  It  was  another  example 
that  one  can  never  judge  a  man's  knowledge 
by  his  accent,  for  sometimes  the  man  with 
the  thickest  brogue  has  the  most  brains  and 
the  one  with  the  most  exaggerated  intona- 
tion the  least  sense.  Though  the  boy  lived 
so  near  me  I  had  not  before  met  him  and  I 
suppose  that  was  because  I  had  not  called 
into  many  houses.  A  curate  has  such  a 
"come  and  go"  life  that  the  more  friends  he 
makes  in  a  parish  the  harder  is  the  parting 
and  that  may  account  for  want  of  interest 
on  our  part  sometimes.  However  that's  all 
by  the  way. 

Once  my  young  friend  changed  the  sub- 
ject of  our  conversation  rather  abruptly  by 
asking  me  a  strange  question: 

"I  want  to  ax  you  a  question.  Father. 
Are  there  people  in  it  now  who  believe  in 
sidheogs  and  pishrogues  an'  fairies  an'  the  likes? 

"I  have  met  people  who  would  persuade 
themselves  to  believe  in  anything/ '  I  re- 
turned/4 just  as  there  are  some  who  persuade 
themselves  to  believe  in  nothing/ ' 

"Well,  the  ray  son  I  axed  you  that  now/' 
said  he,  "is  that  a  chap  come  here  last  July 
an',  begorras,  he  found  fairies  playin'  'hide 
an'  seek'  among  the  daisies  an'  Iciprcachains 
whackin'  shoes  under  every  whitethorn  bush. 
Dickens  o'  such  lies  ever  anyone  heard  as  he 


112 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


was  told  around  here  as  soon  as  the  people 
got  to  know  him.  I  believe  myself  was  the 
first  to  come  across  him  bey  ant  on  the  road, 
but  sure  I  couldn't  make  head  or  tail  o'  half 
all  he  was  sayin'  for  I  wasn't  very  well  up 
thin.  I'd  be  able  for  him  now  though,  I 
think,  an'  I  wouldn't  have  to  tell  him  lies  a 
nayther  no  more  than  I  did  thin." 

"What  sort  of  person  was  he?"  I  asked. 

He  described  the  visitor  and  I  immediately 
recognized  the  'fairy  man.'  I  got  all  my 
companion  had  to  tell  me,  and  putting  that 
with  what  I  already  knew,  was  able  to  write 
a  short  sketch. 

There's  too  much  of  this  ethereal  dreaming 
going  on  and  too  little  earnest  work;  too 
many  standing  with  their  backs  to  the  wall 
and  their  hands  in  their  trousers  pockets, 
and  too  few  in  the  fields  and  the  workshops; 
too  many  scoffing  critics  on  the  fence,  and 
to  few  hurlers  taking  the  field;  still  perhaps 
if  I  were  writing  this  sketch  to-day  I  might  be 
more  lenient.    Do  you  think  it's  too  severe?" 

"I  can't  say  till  I  see  it,"  I  returned. 

"I  forgot,"  he  said.  "Well  here  it  is  now." 
And  he  handed  me  a  crumbled  M.S.  "I  just 
found  it  in  the  linings  of  an  old  valise." 


"THE  MYSTIC  AND  THE  MAN"* 


HE  Stranger  was   a  small,  thin  man; 


A  his  long  black  hair  fell  in  ringlets 
over  his  forehead,  and  behind  its  graceful 
curls  reached  even  to  his  narrow  shoulders. 
One  would  at  first  sight  judge  him  a  piano- 
tuner,  or  a  poet,  and  on  second  thoughts  in- 
cline to  believe  him  a  poet,  as  the  opportu- 
nities for  the  former  exercising  his  calling 
in  backward  Dun-na-Sgeithe  behind  the  Doire 
Ban  mountains  were  nil.  He  was  a  poet  — 
a  poet  who  peopled  the  world  with  fantastic 
creatures  drawn  from  other  worlds  by  his 
own  innate  and  wonderful  power,  and  among 
them  he  lived  a  life  of  deepest  mystery,  and 
learned  things  from  the  shadowy  forms  a- 
round  him,  which  he  put  in  a  book,  and  sought 
to  change,  but  could  not,  for  the  power  of  the 
People  of  his  World  was  upon  him,  and  he 
could  not.  Ordinary  mortals  did  not  under- 
stand half  all  the  Stranger  had  told  in  the 
book  —  nor  did  he  himself,  possibly  —  yet 
what  did  it  matter?  He  was  a  poet  —  a 
mystic  —  a  mystic  poet,  and  did  he  not  hold 
a  "poetic  license"? 

Though  it  was  a  warm  evening  in  July, 
a  heavy  overcoat  enveloped  his  slender  frame, 
for  he  was  cold  in  the  midst  of  sunshine, 
weary  though  he  had  rested  much.  He  sought 
peace  and  quiet  to  think  and  dream  on  the 
weird  inhabitants  of  duns  and  castles  and  hills 


*  By  kind  permission  of  Ed.  "C .  Y.  M ." 


114 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


and  dismal  places,  and  now  he  smiled  for 
the  loneliness  of  this  Clare  hillside  pleased 
him,  and  he  had  found  what  he  had  sought 
for  —  peace  to  think  and  dream. 

But  hark!  over  the  hills  came  the  merry 
shouts  of  the  hay-savers,  homeward  bound 
from  the  meadows,  the  Stranger's  heart  was 
chilled;  he  sought  loneliness,  and  it  was  not 
yet  his. 

"I  must  seek  further/ '  he  said,  as  gathering 
his  great  coat  round  him,  he  went  down  the 
road.  On  he  went,  by  hawthorn  hedges  and 
past  green  gardens  and  murmuring  brooks 
till  at  last  he  left  the  hills  behind  and  reached 
the  barren  bog-land  that  stretched  towards 
the  West.  A  stream  came  down  from  the 
mountain  and  turned  a  lazy  mill-wheel  be- 
yond. "Ah!"  said  the  stranger,  "an  ideal 
loneliness  reigns  here.  I  could  sit  and  dream 
by  this  dreary  moor,  and  feel  the  pyrene  calm 
of  the  quivering  twilight  as,  ever  and  anon 
it  whisks  by  the  rhymical  hill-tops  and  ga- 
thers in  its  wake  the  sprites  of  eve  towards 
where  the  Golden  Chariot  glides  on  a  crystal 
sunbeam  to  its  green-grey  bower  'mid  whis- 
pering cloudlets." 

A  while  he  stood  and  saw  "the  sprites  of 
eve"  passing  over  the  moor,  and  with  their 
shadowy  arms  waving  him  to  follow  in  their 
wake;  and  then  absorbed  in  the  gathering 
gloom,  they  disappeared  in  an  opal  hush. 

"This  is  a  beautiful  peace,"  said  the  Stran- 
ger; "here  could  I  rest  and  think  and  dream 


ITS  SHADOWS  AND  SUNSHINE. 


115 


for  ever,  were  it  not  for  that  babbling  stream 
eterne,  which  distracts  my  ear,  and  that 
mill  wheel  whose  dripping  sides  reflects  the 
glanting  beams  and  whose  every  revolution 
disturbs  my  vision  of  the  three  grey  winds 
and  the  five  blue  spooks  of  the  murky  moor, 
whose  plaintive  cries  rejoice  my  heart.  I 
wish  that  wheel  would  stop,  and   99 

"Faix,  thin,  that  'ud  be  a  bad  job,"  said 
a  rustic  on  the  road  before  him  whom  he 
had  not  yet  seen.  "What  'ud  we  do,  thin, 
for  bread?" 

The  Stranger  was  called  back  from  the 
■  vision  of  the  sprites  to  the  grim  realities  of 
life, 

"Ah!"  he  said,  "Geea  Guth!" 

uDia  is  Muire  dhuit,  a  dhuine  ua- 
sail"  replied  the  Rustic,  and  stopped.  He 
thought  it  was  not  his  business  to  proceed. 
The  Stranger  hesitated,  too,  for  his  store  of 
Irish  had  already  run  out,  and  he  waited  for 
the  Rustic  to  begin  in  English,  for  so  the 
rustics  usually  did.  Now,  however,  he  was 
disappointed,  for  the  man  stood  in  silence 
by  his  side.  The  Stranger  was  somewhat 
disconcerted. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  recovering  himself  at  last, 
"Friend  do  you  ever  exult  in  the  ethereal 
loneliness  of  this  whispering  waste  in  the  dim- 
eyed  dawn?  The  loneliness,  y'  know,  the  glim- 
mering hush  of  a  blue  loneliness?" 

"Well,  thin,  no,  now,  mind  you,"  said  the 
Rustic;  then  he  thought  of  himself  and  re- 


116 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


gretted  he  had  not  said,  "Yis,  o'  course,  sir, 
now  an'  agin";  for  the  man  was  mad,  he 
thought,  and  'twere  better  agree  with  him. 

I  must  seek  further,"  said  the  Stranger  as 
if  to  himself.  Then  to  the  Rustic,  "Go  you 
to  the  village?  If  so,  I  should  like  to  accom- 
pany you." 

"You  may  an'  welcome,  sir,"  replied  the 
Rustic,  and  side  by  side  they  walked  down  the 
road.  At  last  the  Stranger  suddenly  clutched 
his  companion's  arm,  and,  pointing  across 
the  fields,  cried. : 

"See  where  the  hobgoblins  of  the  Forest 
of  Gloom  disport  themselves  in  celestial  grey- 
ness!  That  was  perhaps,  the  palace  of  their 
fathers.  Here  was  their  forest!!  There  a 
palace  of  stars  with  silvery  pillars,  towers, 
and  

"Is  it  the  sheep-pen  Padraig  O'Ceallaigh 
made  last  March,  ye  name,  sir?"  said  the 
Rustic,  looking  at  what  was  shown  him. 
Then  he  recollected  the  Stranger  must  be 
really  mad,  and  was  sorry  he  had  not  said. 
"His  grandfather  saw  them  in  it;' '  but  he  was 
late  now,  and  the  Stranger  groaned  at  the 
prosaic  remark  and  pressed  the  matter  no 
more.  He  concluded  this  was  no  true  Celt, 
for  if  he  were,  he  should  be  mystic  and  un- 
derstand the  hidden  meaning  of  the  poetic 
words.  He  resolved  to  try  his  companion  in 
another  direction,  and,  gathering  himself  to- 
gether with  an  effort,  attempted  to  descend 
to  the  Rustic's  sphere: 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS. 


117 


"Is  the  new  revival  making  progress  here, 
friend?"  he  asked.  "It  leads,  y'  know,  to 
disclose  the  Celtic  soul,  its  pathos  and  its 
mystery!!!" 

"What  soart,  sir?"  said  the  Rustic,  not  a 
little  bewildered. 

"The  Language  Movement. — It  leads  towards 
thought   dreamland  —  mystery  —  shadows 

a  —  a  The   Language   Movement,  y' 

know?"  And  the  stranger  stopped. 

"Och!  by  dad,  then,  it  is  so!"  said  the  Rus- 
tic. "I  didn't  know  what  ye  meant  a  while 
ago,  sir.  But  the  Language  is  goin'  ahead 
finely  here,  so  it  is.  Short  since  an'  I  thought 
'twas  lost  altogether  —  that  is  if  I  thought  at 
all  of  it.  but  " 

"He  thinks  —  he  thinks!  Oh!!  if  he  would 
only  dream ! ! !  Dreamers  we  want.  Dreamers 
of  the  wistful  echoes  and  white-bearded  war- 
gods  of  the  withered  ages  of  the  world's 
childhood!" 

"Dramers,  is  it,  sir?"  said  the  Rustic  sim- 
ply; "Father  Patt  said  'tis  the  workers  we 
want." 

"Father  Patt!  Who  is  Father  Patt?"  asked 
the  Stranger. 

"The  curate,  sir.  The  curate,"  said  the 
Rustic,  and  then  as  if  anxious  to  talk  a  piece 
of  common  sense,  continued  quickly:  "'Tis 
eight  year  now  since  the  right  spirit  was  put 
into  us  first  by  a  young  man  o'  these  parts, 
an'  Father  Patt  kept  it  alive  an'  prosperin' 
till  the  Bishop  changed  him  a  fortnight  ago — 


118 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


"A  young  man  who  came  from  the  Cave 
of  Knowledge  with  the  East  wind  " 

"No!  thin,  he  did  not,"  corrected  the  Rustic 
"He  was  a  son  of  Brian  O'Ciarain,  over 
from  Tubber-na-mban,  an'  a  fine  boy  he  was, 
God  bless  him!" 

"Ah!  proceed,  friend,"  said  the  Stranger 
disappointedly* 

"Art  O'Ciarain  was  a  grand  boy,  sir.  You'd 
see  him  o'  a  fine  summer  morning,  walkin' 
be  the  river  side  an'  a  book  under  his  arm,  an' 
one  or  two  distributed  in  each  o'  his  pockets, 
an'  there's  no  knowin'  what  compliment  o' 
books  he  carried  about  him.  He  read,  an' 
read,  an'  read!  Oh!  he  was  full  o'  learnin',  an' 
sure  maybe  that  was  the  reason  himself  an' 
Father  Patt  were  such  great  friends,  for  'tis 
many  a  fine  evenin'  I  saw  thim  argufyin' 
an'  gesticulatin'  over  the  road  beyond  the 
chapel  till,  God  forgi'  me  for  sayin'  it,  I 
used  to  think  the  priest  'ud  fall  to  beatin' 
him!  Sure 'tis  only  a  discussion  they'd  have, 
an'  they'd  come  back  the  best  o'  friends,  an' 
jokin'  together.  Och!  they  were  the  grand 
pair,  an'  I  used  to  delight  in  thinkin'  o'  thim 
and  wishin'  there  were  many  like  thim." 

"Ah!"  interjected  the  Stranger  "he,  thinks 
he  wishes,  and  will  dream.  He  peers  into 
the  shadows  of  the  dim  past.  He  is  wistful 
towards  the  dubious  future!  Go  on,  friend, 
pray  proceed!"  And  the  Stranger  was  glad. 
The  poor  Rustic  drew  a  deep  breath, —  some- 
thing akin  to  a  sigh,  and  "proceeded:" 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS. 


119 


"Well,  one  day  young  Art  come  up  to  my- 
self an'  says  he  in  Irish, —  he  was  great  at 
Irish,  'book-Irish'  an*  every  soart. — 'Seumas,' 
says  he,  'isn't  it  a  great  pity  that  there's  no 
right  spirit  in  the  boys  o'  the  parish?  I  was 
thinkin'  along  time  o'  it,'  says  he,  'an'  knew 
if  only  we  could  get  a  hand  from  the  priests, 
we'd  do  wonders.  The  poor  P.P.  is  too 
ould  to  do  anything  but  sympathize  —  an' 
he'll  do  that  an'  welcome, —  but  the  Curate! — 
He  talked  o'  bread-an'  butter,  an'  shop- 
keepin'  an'  book-keepin'  an'  geography  an' 
emigration,  an'  theory,  an'  practice,  but,' 
says  Art,  1  at  the  end  o'  five  strong  weeks  o' 
argifycation,  I  bet  him,  an'  now  he  wants  to 
meet  the  hurlers  to-night  at  the  school-house. 
Be  there  yourself  Seumas,'  says  he,  'an'  tell 
all  the  boys  you  can,  'an'  off  with  him  one 
way  to  tell  more,  an'  I  rambled  over  to  Cnoc- 
naleasa  to  spread  the  news. 

"That  night  we  all  come  to  the  school,  an' 
up  gets  the  Curate  an'  makes  a  thunderin' 
fine  speech.  'We  must  be  Irish,'  says  he, 
'Irish  or  nothing.'  He  said  he  was  makin' 
a  mistake  all  his  life,  an'  'twas  only  the  other 
day  young  Art  O'Ciarain  made  him  see  the  er- 
ror o'  his  ways.  'I  see  it  now,'  says  the  Cura- 
te, '  an'  if  I  can,  I'll  say  a  few  words  o'  Irish 
next  Sunday,  an'  I  give  you  my  word  to  start 
at  once  learnin'  the  ould  language  o'  the  grand 
saints  an'  warriors  o'  ould  ' " 

"Ay!  Ay!  and  the  chain-mailed  war-gods!" 
said  the  Stranger,  unable  to  restrain  himself. 


120 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


"Father  Patt  made  no  mention  o'  thim, 
sir!"  said  the  Rustic,  and  in  his  enthusiasm 
continued.  " After  that  young  Art  got  up 
and  made  a  speech,  an'  we  gave  him  a  mighty 
cheer,  for  well  we  knew  he  was  at  the  root  of 
it  all.  Most  o'  us  didn't  expect  any  good  'ud 
come  o'  the  whole  thing,  but  all  the  same  we 
all  came  an'  whin  we  heard  Father  Patt,  an' 
saw  Art  O'Ciarain's  smilin'  face  an'  bright 
eyes  " 

'  'Yes,  mysterious  eyes !  Eyes  of  dreams  and 
visions  of  hope.    Proceed !" 

"Whin  we  heard  an'  saw  what  was  goin' 
on  our  hearts  were  touched  an'  our  spirits 
woke  up,  an'  we  cheered  an'  cheered  again. 
Young  Art  spoke  to  us  in  English.  'Friends/ 
says  he,  'are  ye  English  or  Irish?  If  ye're 
English,  in  the  name  o'  God  give  up  callin' 
yourselves  Irish;  an'  if  ye're  Irish,  begin  to 
be  really  Irish,  an'  begin  now.  Here  now/ 
says  he,  Til  ask  ye  to  take  a  sort  o'  a  pledge 
to  speak  nothing  but  Irish  on  the  hurlin' 
field  for  the  future!  Don't  be  praising  or 
blamin'  your  fellow  hurlers  in  a  foreign  lan- 
guage," says  he,  "but  do  it  in  the  old  tongue 
o'  your  own  land,  an'  begin  after  Mass  next 
Sunday,'  We  all  shouted  we  would  — ex- 
cept ould  Liam  Connors,  an'  he's  hard  o' 
hearin',  the  crature,  an'  did'nt  know  half 
all  that  was  goin'  on  —  besides  he's  75  or  so! 
The  followin'  Sunday  we  began;  an'  if  you 
were  to  hear  the  hurlers  forgettin'  themselves 
an'    shoutin'    'Dash  —  um    fear  a  Mike!' 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  121 


Good  man  go  deo  thu,  aDick!'  But  after  a 
couple  o'  Sundays  we  got  into  the  Irish,  an' 
what's  more,  we  stuck  to  it,  too. !" 

The  Stranger  seemed  not  to  follow  the 
story.  He  was  looking  "towards  where  the 
golden  chariot  glided  among  the  whispering 
cloudlets.' '  The  Rustic  did  not  notice  the 
abstractedness  of  the  other,  but  continued: 

"Well,  after  a  whileen,  we  had  a  little  class, 
an'  learned  to  read  an'  write  Irish,  an'  we 
had  singin'  an'  dancin',  an'  so  on.  But  if 
you  knew  how  Art  would  work  us  up  —  put- 
tin'  townland  against  townland.  "Dunard 
leads  this  week!  "he'd  say;  "Stir  up,  Cnocban!" 
an'  sure  enough  Cnocban  would  stir  up  an' 
lead  the  followin'  week.  Thats'  how  he  got 
us  on,  an'  whin  he  left  us  to  go  back  to  college, 
for  he  was  a  collegian,  you  know,  sir  —  we 
kept  on  ourselves  and  Father  Patt  along  with 
us.  He  made  fine  headway  with  the  Irish, 
an'  he  kept  the  spirit  alive  in  us,  too  —  an,' 
troth  many  of  us  wanted  that,  for  there  were 
staigini  here  as  well  as  every  where  else. 

"Sure  whin  young  Art  come  back,  his 
heart  was  glad  to  see  us  all  houldin'  on  so  well 
at  the  language,  an'  Father  Patt  preachin' 
sermons  that  'ud  convert  the  divil  himself 
if  hecould understand  thim— which  he  couldn't. 
'Seumas,'  says  Art  one  day  to  me,  'coming 
back  among  ye  is  like  comin'  into  the  fresh 
air  out  o'  a  coal-mine.'  'Irish  mustn't  be 
prosperin'  everywhere  as  it  is  here,  Art?  says 
I,  with  a  wink.    'I  suppose  it  isn't,'  says  he, 


122 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


'but  that  needn't  trouble  us;  we  must  go  on/ 
says  he,  'an'  I  have  a  new  plan  to  try  with  ye 
this  time.'  He  did  try  it,  an'  it  was  a  great 
thing!  Every  Sunday  evenin'  after  Benedic- 
tion, we'd  all  gather  in  the  school,  an'  Father 
Patt  'ud  take  the  chair,  an'  thin  there  'ud 
be  a  debate  on  some  homely  question  that 
everyone  knew  something  about.  One  time 
'twould  be  'Seed-potatoes,'  another,  'The 
Tax  on  Tobaccy,'  an'  the  like.  After  a 
whileen  the  ould  women  itself  began  comin' 
in,  an'  thin  once  they'd  begin  to  talk,  he'd 
be  a  great  man  entirely  that  ud  get  a  word  in. 
One  night  the  tay  question  was  on,  an'  the 
women  kept  the  floor  the  whole  time.  Poor 
Father  Patt  gave  up  all  hope  o'  stoppin' 
thim,  an'  at  last  unbeknown  stole  away  home 
an'  left  thim  there  bargin'  away  to  their 
heart's  contint.  But  faix,  he  made  provision 
to  prevent  the  like  happenin'  again. 

'  'Things  wint  on  be  degrees.  We  began  to 
see  things  for  ourselves  an'  to  talk  about 
what  'ud  benefit  us.  There  was  that  ould 
mill  you  saw  awhile  ago,  sir;  it  was  idle  for 
nigh  on  sixty  years.  Well,  a  few  o'  the  far- 
mers and  the  priests  joined  together,  an' 
there  it  is  grindin'  away,  an'  givin'  employ- 
ment to  six  or  eight  min  the  year  round. 
Ay,  faix,  we're  goin'  on  nicely  now,  an'  we're 
only  in  the  beginnin'  o'  it. —  I'm  goin'  over 
this  boithrin,  sir,  so  we  must  be  partin.'  I'm 
sure  you're  tired  o'  my  ramblin'  talk,  but  I 
can't  help  talkin'  whinever  I  think  o'  Art.  I 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS. 


123 


didn't  talk  so  much  English  since  I  was  at 
Ennis  fair  last  March!  Look,  sir!  Do  you 
see  the  chapel  yard  our  this?"  asked  the  Rustic. 

"Clearly,  quite  clearly !"  said  the  Stranger. 

"Do  you  see  the  tall  priest,  walkin'  up  an' 
down  readin'  his  office ?" 

"I  do.  Yes,  I  see  him,  a  young  man," 
said  the  Stranger. 

"Weil,  sir,"  said  the  Rustic  with  convic- 
tion, "that's  the  best  priest  in  Ireland!  It 
will  do  you  good  to  go  down  an'  have  a  talk 
with  Father  Art  O'Ciarain,  our  new  Curate 
in  place  o'  Father  Patt!" 

"God  bless  him!"  said  the  Stranger. 

"An'  sind  us  more  like  him!"  said  the  Rus- 
tic. 

And  so  they  parted,  and  the  Rustic  thought 
the  stranger  was  a  very  queerjnan,  but  that 
there  was  hope  for  him. 

"There's  no  Fr.  Art  'Anything'  in  our 
diocese,"  said  I  to  Fr.  O'Hara. 

"Can't  I  call  m  "  I  had  caught  him. 

He  blushed  to  the  roots  of  his  hair  for  he 
had  given  himself  away.  * 

"The  whole  thing  is  imaginary"  he  added 
trying  to  save  himself. 


"ANOTHER  CHAT." 


RATHER  peculiar  fellows  they  did 
got  on  the  District  Council  last  year," 
I  remarked.  "I  didn't  take  particular 
notice  of  it  till  lately." 

"Some  of  them,"  was  the  laconic  reply  of 
Fr.  O'Hara. 

"Well  I  know  a  good  many  and  honestly 
I  don't  see  how  any  decent  man  could  have 
given  one  of  them  a  vote." 

"I  don't  think  it's  likely  to  occur  again. 
It  all  resulted  from  a  joke  of  some  of  the  boys 
here, —  a  thoughtless  joke  it  was  too,  but 
unfortunately  for  the  Electoral  Divisions  of 
the  Cathermore  Union,  the  boys  in  other 
places  followed  suit.    Still  there  are  enough 
of  good  men  on  the  board  to  prevent  much 
damage  being  done.     By   the  way  don't 
blame  the  voters;  they  are  not  responsible 
as  there  was  no  contest,  at  least  —  here." 
"Then  there  should  be  a  contest!"  said  L 
"You  must  ask  Ned  Sheehan  about  that." 
and  he  laughed. 
"I  won't  bother." 

"Why  do  you  bother  then  by  asking  me?" 
he  vsaid.  "But  that's  Irish  all  over  no  pains 
taken  to  obtain  anything,  even  information, — 
I  should  have  excepted  jobs,  for  'pon  my  word 
there's  some  trouble  and  something  else  taken 
there." 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean?" 


126 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


"I  alluded  merely  to  an  imported  custom 
—  Yes  I  think  'twas  Lord  Castlereagh  im- 
ported it  in  1800  or  1801." 

"I  see  now  what  you're  driving  at.  Well 
thank  God  it  is  not  very  common  in  Ireland.' 9 

"I  know  of  it  in  only  one  or  two  places,  but 
they  will  give  a  bad  name  to  the  whole. 
That  ought  not  be  allowed  you  know." 

"And  then  from  the  one  or  two  places  the 
custom  may  grow." 

"Even  if  it  does  not,"  said  Fr.  Q'Hara, 
"to  use  a  pet  phrase  of  mine  one  or  two  is 
one  or  two  too  many.  If  respectable  men, 
I  don't  mean  'respectable'  to  denote  the 
family  tree  business,  but  men  of  character 
and  courage,  be  elected  that  curse,  as  evil, 
I  should  say,  as  intemperance,  would  be  for 
ever  weeded  out  because  it  is  not  of  native 
growth.  I  do  not  mean  that  poor  farmers 
or  tradesmen  should  not  be  elected.  A  poor 
man  who  is  worthy  has  as  much  right  to  ex- 
pect election  as  his  rich  neighbours,  and  more 
than  a  landlord,  rich  or  poor. —  Now  I  want 
to  tell  you  something,"  and  he  came  close  to 
me.  "I  feel  I  am  acquiring  a  lot  of  grit  and 
go, —  you'll  call  it  conceit,  I  suppose, — 
since  I  saw  a  couple  of  these  efforts  I  gave  you 
in  a  magazine.  I  don't  know  how  many 
were  rejected  as  you  never  told  me  anything 
about  them  either  way,  and  I'm  not  going 
to  inquire;  but  just  now  I  will  venture  one 
that  will,  I  dare  to  hope,  do  good,  if  read  in 
the  spirit  in  which  it  is  written,   or  bring 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  127 


a  storm  about  my  anonymous  head  if  my 
intentions  are  wrongly  construed. 

You  understand  our  selection  of  Councillor 
here  was  a  farce.  Well  I  want  to  call  special 
attention  to  its  result,  though  it  is  commonly 
known  it  is  not  fully  realized  and,  at  the  risk 
of  being  accused  of  stage-Irishmanism  —  an 
"ism"  that  I  heartily  abominate —  I  ask  you 
to  do  with  this  account  of  our  election  and 
its  result  as  you  have  done  with  the  others/ ' 

"By  the  way  I  have  a  little  surprise  for  you," 
I  said,  "you  need  not  worry  about  the  expense 
of  your  next  change  of  residence". 

He  smiled  and  his  eyes  brightened  that  his 
stories  besides  doing  good  were  considered  by 
editors  to  have  a  monetary  value. 

"Is  that  so!  well  I'm  very  glad,  not  do  much 
on  account  of  the  money  itself,  but  the  sa- 
tisfaction of  knowing  someone  set  value  on 
the  'glimpses/  Tis  too  bad,  though,"  he 
said  "with  a  laugh  that  it  should  be  spent  on 
furniture  breaking." 


"AN  TURTY  CARICATURES  THEY 
ARE,  IN  TROTH."* 


"TI^OR  you  at  second  Mass  to-day, 
W  Murty?"  It  was  Ned  Sheehan 
that  spoke  to  our  old  friend.  Ned  was  "a 
man  with  a  grievance ;"  he  always  had  some- 
thing or  other  to  complain  of. 

"No,  thin,  I  wasn't,"  replied  Murty.  "I 
wint  to  firsht  Mass,  as  hersel'  wanted  to  see 
some  o'  the  Larkins  o'  Tubbercloran,  and 
wint  to  second.    Why  d'ye  ax.?" 

"Because  this  counthry  is  goin'  to  the 
dickens,  Murty,  and  you  may  take  my  word 
for  that!" 

"If  it  isn't  gone  there  already,  Ned,  as  I 
often  tould  ye,"  said  Murty. 

"God  save  ye  both!"  and  Matt  Reardon 
came  up  to  where  the  two  were  talking. 

"God  save  ye  kindly,  Matt!"  said  Murty 
and  Ned  almost  in  the  same  breath. 

"What'll  we  do  wut  the  crops  this  year  at 
all,  I  dunno?  The  weather  is  rotten  bad,  so 
it  is,  glory  be  to  God!"  and  Matt  looked  at 
the  leaden  skies. 

"Bedad!  'tis  as  bad  for  wan  as  another, 
Matt,"  replied  Murty,  "an'  we  musht  be 
satisfied  till  God  sends  us  betther." 

"Tell  me,  Matt,"  interrupted  Ned,  "wor 
you  at  second  mass  to-day?' ' 

"Why  d'ye  ax  me  that,  Ned?" 

"But  wor  ye?"  repeated  Ned. 


*Bj  kind  permission  of  Ed.  "Irish  Rosary.' 


130 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


"Tis  at  Kilcronan  I  was.  But  why  d'ye 
ax?" 

"Faix!  he  axed  me  the  same  question," 
said  Murty,  "an'  I  didn't  hear  of  anything, 
a-nayther.  To  be  sure,  I  saw  a  notice  on 
the  gate  goin'  in  o'  me,  but,  to  tell  the  truth, 
I  didn't  take  the  throuble  to  read  it." 

"Well,"  said  Ned,  with  a  long-drawn  sigh, 
"I'm  despairin'  o'  me  counthry  intirely!  I 
read  that  notice,  an'  waited  afther  Mass  to 
see  the  represintation  o'  me  district  given  to 
an  ould  non-inity  o'  a  crature  that  hasn't  as 
much  learnin'  as  ud  write  his  name,  nor  two 
dacint  feet  to  put  undher  him!" 

"Muiseadh,  who's  the  purty  caricature' you're 
describin,"  asked  Murty,  with  a  grin.  He 
well  knew  Ned's  weakness  for  grievances, 
and  that  he  was  never  so  miserably  happy,  to 
use  an  apparent  paradox,  as  when  he  was 
recounting  one. 

"Divil  o'  the  likes  o'  it  ever  ye  heard  in 
all  yer  born  days!  You  saw  the  notice  on 
the  chapel  gate,  Murty?  Well,  that  was  an 
inwitation  to  all  an'  sundry  that  afther  Mass 
they'd  select  a  District  Councillor  for  Cloch- 
fada,  in  your  place,  Matt  —  for  Jamesey 
Gagan,  that  was  co-opted  afther  you,  an' 
was  elected  last  year,  wouldn't  hould  the 
position  agin  for  love  or  money.  They  wor 
goin'  round  to  this  wan  an'  that  wan  to  go 
on,  but  nobody  was  willin'.  Your  own  name, 
Matt,  was  mentioned  agin  an'  agin,  but  I 
told  thim  'twas  no  use,  as  I  knew  yer  sinti- 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  131 


mints.  Thin  Billy  Graley's  son  come  over  to 
me  —  the  lad  that  got  the  land  the  time  o' 
'the  diyidin.'" 

""Tis  as  well  for  yoursel'  to  take  it,  Ned, M 
says  he. 

"'No!'  says  I.    'I  have  more  since/  says  IM 

"That  was  a  quare  thing  to  say,  whin  you 
look  into  it,"  remarked  Murty. 

"Shtop  now,  Murty,  wan  minit,"  said  Ned, 
and  continued: — 

'"Arrah!  do!/  says  Billy's  son,  in  a  coaxin' 
way,  'you'd  be  a  great  man  in  it.  Go  an  in/ ' 
says  he. 

"'I  won't,  I  tell  ye,'  says  I,  'an'  there's 
the  ind  of  it!' 

'"Ah!  do,'  says  he,  an'  a  grin  on  one  side 
o'  his  face,  'you'd  have  a  great  chance  to  vint 
all  your  grievances  in  the  Boordroom,'  and 
away  wud  him  before  I  could  give  him  a 
sweet  answer.  Bedad!  'tis  a  quare  thing 
that  these  young  hayros  ud  come  up  to  any 
dacint  man  an'  give  him  ould  guff  like  that! 
'Twouldn't  be  taken  from  us  whin  we  wor 
youngsthers." 

"But  who  tuk  it?"  asked  Matt,  interest- 
edly. He  meant  of  course,  the  "represen- 
tation." 

"Who  tuk  it,  is  it?  Hould  an  till  ye  hear! 
Over  wut  me  boyo,  Billy's  son,  an'  wint 
laughin'  and  whisperin'  wut  a  lot  o'  the 
Lisheen  lads,  that  got  land,  too,  and  before 
thesinsible  min  could  say  'Yis/  'Aye,'  or 
'No,'  up  wut  him  to  SeumaisinHooley,  that 


132 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


lame  cripple  o'  a  tailor  from  Gurteenban, 
and  gives  him  a  slap  on  the  back. 

"' Here's  the  man/  adeir  sey  'to  repre- 
sint  Clochfada  disthrict,  an'  I  propose  we 
put  him  in  wut  all  the  honours  o'  war/ 

"'I  second  that!1  says  that  geancach  son 
o'  Larry  Hushian's. 

'"Huroo,  Huroo!'  says  them  all,  an'  up  they 
put  the  tailor  on  their  shoulders,  and  out 
with  him  on  the  road,  an'  carried  him  half 
a  mile  down,  shoutin'  and  laughin'  all  the 
time.  He  losht  the  camog,  an'  how  he  got 
home  without  the  shtick  bates  me!  Och! 
the  country  is  goin'  to  the  dickens  —  if  it 
isn't  gone  there  already,  as  you  say,  Murty!" 

"Well!  that  bates  all  I  ever  heard  or  seen 
before  or  since,  so  it  does!"  said  Matt,  most 
emphatically. 

"Arrah,  sure!  an'  what  differ  does  it  make 
who  they  put  in?"  said  Murty. 

"Hah!  maybe  you'd  know  that,  Murty, 
when  that  red  spriosan  from  Derraban  comes 
wut  his  'God-save-all-here'  to  gather  the 
rates,"  said  Ned. 

"Thrue  for  ye,  so  it  is!"  said  Matt. 

"Well,  now,  my  way  of  lookin'  at  the  thing 
is  this,"  exclaimed  Murty.  "There's  only 
a  few  honesht,  intelligint  min  takin'  any  in- 
terests in  this  business,  so  the  besht  thing  to 
to  is  to  let  thim  put  in  lads  like  Hooley,  an' 
whin  the  counthry  sees  a  whole  'Boordroom  of 
these  purty  caricatures'  managin'  the  affairs 
o'  the  world,  'twill  wake  up  and  do  the  right 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  133 


thing!  An'  purty  caricatures  they  are,  in 
troth!" 

"But  tell  mejthis !"  said  Matt.  "Why  didn't 
ye  put  in  a  good  man  when  the  young  lads 
wor  gone?" 

"Arrah,  Matt,  a  stoir  !!  Have  a  bit  o'  com- 
mon sinse!  Do  ye  think  any  self-respectin' 
individual  ud  put  up  his  name  agin  an  igno- 
rant, lame  ceolan  like  Seumaisin  Hooley?  A 
man  that  wint  searchin'  the  parish  for  a  sheep 
because  he  wasn't  able  to  count  up  to  tin, 
Three  an'  three  is  six  —  an'  four  is  nine/  'deir 
se,  Van  short,'  and  off  wut  him  —  hop- 
an'-go-wan  with  his  lame  step  —  lookin'  for 
a  sheep  that  was  safe  an'  sound  wut  the  rest 
in  his  own  field!  I  tell  you,"  and  this  was 
very  emphatic,  "the  rates  '11  be  hot  an'  heavy 
if  the  likes  o'  him  has  the  tottin'  up  o'  thim. 
Contest,  indeed!  an'  have  the  expense  o'  an 
election.  Besides  these  young  lads  have 
votes,  and  ud  put  in  Seumaisin  just  for  the 
divilmint  o'  the  thing." 

"Well,  as  I  said  before,  that  bates  all  I 
ever  heard  or  seen,"  said  Matt. 

"It  does  so"  said  Murty,  "but  sure  what's 
the  differ?" 

Ned  looked  at  him. 

"Well  there,  let  thim,  if  that's  all  you  care," 
said  he. 

"Och!!  Muiseadh  there  let  thim,"  said 
Murty. 

"Good  evenin'  to  you,  said  Ned. 
******* 

The  selection  of  Seumaisin  Hooley,  by  Cloch. 


134 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


fada,  was  lamented  by  the  older  people,  but 
to  others  it  was  a  source  of  much  amusement. 
The  worst  of  it  was  that  some  of  "the  lads 
that  got  land' 7  in  other  places,  not  to  be  beaten 
by  Glochfada,  looked  out  for  other  -  'carica- 
tures/ 9  as  Murty  called  them,  and  selected 
them,  "just  for  the  fun  of  it."  They  never 
thought  of  the  serious  side  of  the  business 
at  all,  but  judging  the  work  of  the  boardroom 
by  the  reports  in  the  Ballyoran  Watchman 
forgot  the  expenditure  of  money  involved, 
that  these  "purty  caricatures"  were  the 
guardians  of  the  poor  and  the  protectors  of 
the  health  of  the  Union,  if  only  they  concien- 
tiously  enforced  the  sanitary  laws, 

The  young  men  acted  thoughtlessly,  and 
as  a  result,  many  of  the  type  of  Seumaisin 
Hooley  found  themselves  members  of  the 
Cathermore  District  Council. 

At  the  first  meeting  of  the  "Boord"  a 
scene  of  the  wildest  disorder  was  witnessed. 
The  'sensible  min,"  who  had  come  there  to 
honestly  look  to  the  interests  of  the  people, 
found  themselves  hampered  on  every  side 
by  the  "purty  caricatures". 

The  first  business  that  occupied  the  atten- 
tion of  the  "Boord"was  the  election  of  the 
Chairman,  who  also  would  be  a  "J. P."  ex 
officio. 

Mr.  Charley  O'Connor,  a  very  well-to-do 
intelligent  farmer,  and  a  thoroughly  upright 
man,  was  duly  proposed  and  seconded.  No 
opposition  was  expected  by  his  supporters, 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS. 


135 


but  they  counted  without  the  1  'caricatures/' 
These  had  a  grievance.  Around  O'Connor 
hung  the  odour  of  landlordism,  for  was  not 
his  father  manager  to  Landley,  who  had  not 
yet  agreed  "to  sell  to  the  Commissioners?" 
That  was,  enough  for  the  new  councillors  — 
O'Connor  was  a  landlord's  man,  and  "a 
tinants'  man  should  have  his  chance  now,' 
and  so  they  elected  Thady  Casey,  of  Kil- 
cronan,  whose  character  is  summed  up  in  his 
own  famous  phrase: 

"I  want  no  new-fangled  idayes  walloped  in 
here  on  top  o'  us,  for  whin  there  wasn't  half 
the  knowledge,  nor  half  the  dochtors  in  the 
counthry,  there  wasn't  half  the  disaises  nor 
technicology  nor  bother  in  it  that's  goin'  now !" 

Thady  belonged  to  the  "what-was-good 
enough-f or-me-f ather-is-good-enough-f or- me  ' ' 
type,  and  now  here  he  was  —  Chairman  of  the 
District  Council,  and  a  magistrate  "wut  a 
place  on  the  Binch  beside  the  besht  o'  thim." 

Soon  the  business  of  the  Council  got  into 
full  swing.  The  "purty  caricatures"  (the 
nickname  had  now  become  well  known)  did 
not  at  first  "know  the  ropes"  well  enough, 
and  the  old  councillors  did  things  in  the  good 
old  stereotyped  fashion.  "The  state  o'  the 
house,"  "Refractory  inmates,"  "The  Master's 
report,"  "Complaints  of  the  staff,'  "Leaves 
of  absence,"  with  a  few  "strong  russulutions" 
thrown  in  here  and  there,  were  the  general 
run  of  work. 

There  was  stir  on  "tindher  day."  Canvass- 


136 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


ing  by  those  wanting  contracts  had  taken 
place,  and  it  was  surprising  what  a  full  and 
interested  muster  of  councillors  there  was. 

" Isn't  it  specified  in  the  advertisement/ ' 
asked  Peter  Flynn,  "that  as  far  as  possible 
Irish  manufacture  only  must  be  supplied. 

"Yes,  it  was  so  stated,"  said  the  clerk. 
"Hould  an  there  now,  " Seumaisin  Hooley  put 
in.    "D'ye  keep  down  the  rates  at  all  coshts, 
an'  take  the  chapest?" 

"That's  the  chat,"  said  Tommy  Haley. 

"Excuse  me,  gentlemen,"  said  Charley 
O'Connor,  "taking  Irish  manufacture  doesn't 
mean  raising  the  rates.  It  means  in  nine 
cases  out  of  ten  you're  getting  better  value 
— sometimes,  perhaps,  at  a  trifle  more,  than 
the  foreign  article,  but  still  cheaper  because 
better,  and,  therefore,  I  say,  that  instead  of 
raising  the  rates,  you  are  really  saving 
money  in  the  long  run." 

Such  reasoning  was  lost  on  the  "caricatures;" 
so  it  happened  that  material  of  foreign  make 
was  in  great  part  accepted  by  the  council, 
while  on  their  books,  proposed,  seconded,  and 
passed  unanimously,  stood  a  resolution  pledg- 
ing them  to  support,  where  possible,  Irish 
manufacture, —  an  inconsistency  in  theory 
and  practice  that  was  a  standing  disgrace  to 
the  majority  of  that  board.  They  felt  no 
meaner  for  it,  nor  did  their  constituents  bring 
them  to  task  for  it.  It  is  to  be  feared  that 
Cathermore  is  not  the  only  place  where 
such  inconsistencies  exist,  and  more's  the 
pity  of  it!         *       *       *       *  * 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS, 


137 


One  Saturday  towards  the  end  of  September 
the  Council  met.  'The  Caricatures"  were 
well  into  their  work  by  this  time,  and  further- 
more were  disputing  every  progressive  step, 
for  themselves  and  their  view-point  were  old- 
world.  At  the  beginning  of  business  the  clerk 
announced : — 

"I  have  received  a  resolution,  Mr.  Chairman 
and  Gentlemen,  which  was  adopted  at  a 
meeting  of  the  medical  men  of  the  county, 
and  they  ask  you  to  adopt  it  also,  in  the  in- 
terests of  the  health  of  the  community." 

"What  soart  o'  lads  made  up  that  resolu- 
tion ?"  asked  Seumaisin  Hooley,  D.C. 

"It  was  adopted  at  a  meeting  of  the  doctors 
of  the  county."  explained  the  clerk. 

"Don't  mind  it,"  said  Seumaisin,  "thim 
dochthors  are  only  throwin'  dusht  in  our  eyes 
invintin'  new  idayes  an'  new  disaises  every 
other  day,  an'  puttin'  the  people  'through  an' 
thro"  with  bother  an'  expinse,  an'  that  's  all. 
Throw  it  aside,  d'ye. ! ' ' 

"That's  the  chat!"  said  Tommy  Haley. 
"Mr.  Hooley  is  right,  an'  we  shouldn't  heed 
the  likes  at  all,  at  all." 

"Well,  we  might  have  it  read  at  any  rate," 
suggested  Charley  O'Connor,  "and  if  it  is 
worth  adopting,  by  all  means  do  so." 

"Hear,  hear,"  from  some. 

"Let  the  clerk  read  it  thin  and  be  quick," 
said  the  chairman,  "but  there's  no  sinse  in  it, 
I'm  sure.  'Tis  a  washte  o'  time,  for  I  have 
a  ressulution  here  mesel'  callin'  on  the  Chief 


138 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


Saycretary  to  give  us  Home  Rule,  an'  'twill 
have  a  more  far  reachin'  effect  than  this 
wan."  To  the  Clerk: — "Go  and  wut  it, 
Mr.  Hagerty." 

'"  Proposed  by  Dr.  Moylan,  seconded  by 
Dr.  Mac  Sharry,  and  unaminoulsy  adopted/ 
read  the  clerk.  'That  this  meeting  is  strong- 
ly of  opinion  that  one  of  the  first  steps  to- 
wards the  prevention  of  consumption  and  other 
diseases  is  the  proper  attention  to  the 
sanitary  laws  in  regard  to  the  dwellings  and 
premises  throughout  the  country;  and  we 
most  respectfully  ask  the  various  District 
Councils  to  enforce  the  law  in  the  case  of 
any  house  or  premises  brought  under  their 
notice  as  being  unfit  for  habitation/  That's 
the  resolution,  gentlemen,  and  they  desire 
you  to  bind  yourselves  to  enforce  the  sanitary 
laws  in  your  district/ 1 

"Mark  that  read!!11  said  the  Chairman. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Chairman/7  said 
Dr.  MacSharry,  one  of  the  Medical  Officers 
of  the  Union,  who  was  present.  "That  I 
believe  to  be  a  most  important  " 

"Look  here,  Dochthor,"  said  the  chairman 
"isn't  yersel'  the  sanitary  inspector?" 
|$  "Indeed  no,  I  am  the  sanitary  officer. 
The  relieving  Officer  is  the  sanitary  inspector. 
He  reports  to  me,  I  to  you,  and  then  you  en- 
force the  law." 

"No  matther/'  said  the  chairman,  "we'll 
mark  that  read!11 

"One  moment,  Mr.  Chairman,"  said  the 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS,  139 


doctor,  "the  resolution  is  to  safeguard  the 
people  themselves,  and  is  a  most  progressive 
step  towards  " 

"What  authority  have  you  to  spake  here 
for  or  agin  any  russulution,  I  say?"  questioned 
Mr.  Hooley. 

"That's  the  chat!"  blurted  Tommy  Haley. 

"We'll  manage  this  matther  ourselves, 
Dochther,  don't  be  afeard,"  said  the  chair- 
man. "The  proper  thing  is  to  mark  it  read. 
Mark  that  read!  Mr.  Hagerty." 

"Well  now,  pardon  me,  Mr.  Chairman," 
Charley  O'Connor  spoke  seriously  and  with 
determination.  "No  one  can  question  my 
right  to  speak  here,  and  we  cannot  let  this 
matter  pass  so  easily  as  you  and  some  of 
your  friends  imagine.  I  favour  the  opinion 
of  Dr.  MacSharry,  that  this  resolution  is  an 
important  one,  and  I  believe  a  step  towards 
the  solution  of  a  very  difficult  problem,  and 
so  I  have  great  pleasure  in  proposing  its 
adoption  by  the  council."      (Hear,  hear). 

"I'm  a  plain  counthry  man,"  said  Phil 
Ryan,  a  progressive  farmer,  "an'  as  I  see  the 
need  o'  something  in  the  line  o'  that  resolu- 
tion I  second  Mr.  O'Connor."  ("Hear,  hear, 
from  a  few.) 

On  a  division  the  resolution  was  defeated 
by  fifteen  votes  to  eleven,  Seumaisin  Hooley 
leading  the  opposition.  When  the  result  was 
declared  and  when  the  applause  (!)  that 
greeted  it  had  died  away,  Mr.  O'Connor  re- 
marked : — 


140 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


"It  makes  little  matter,  anyhow,  as  it 
would  be  a  dead  letter  with  ye.  Ye  would 
not  have  backbone  enough  to  enforce  it!" 

"Ordher  there,  you  musht  withdraw  thim 
words !"  said  the  chairman. 

4 'That's  the  "  was  on  the  lips  of  Tommy 

Haley  when  Mr.  O'Connor  remarked: 

"I  cannot  withdraw  the  truth !"  and  then 
left  the  boardroom.  Most  of  the  other  ten 
that  had  voted  for  the  resolution  followed, 
as  well  as  the  three  medical  officers  who  were 
present. 

"Consumption,  and  typhus,  and  thypoid 
will  cut  out  all  the  Irish  speakers,"  remarked 
the  young  enthusiast,  Dr.  Brennan,  when  they 
were  outside.  "Irish  will  be  killed  outright, 
and  all  through  putting  amadhauns  on  the 
Council!  Go  sabhalaidh  Dia  an  tir  seol11  With- 
out another  word  he  went  away,  sad  and  dis- 
appointed, for  till  then  he  had  some  hope  for 
his  country. 

Dr.  MacSharry  and  Dr.  Moylan  were  en- 
gaged in  earnest  conversation  for  a  time. 
When  they  parted  one  could  see  in  MacSharry 
set  face  that  some  course  of  action  had  been 
determined  upon. 

It  was  so,  for  next  board  day  the  house  of 
no  less  a  personage  than  Seumaisin  Hooley, 
"Esquire, "  D.C.,  was  reported  as  unfit  for 
human  habitation!  Dr.  MacSharry's  evidence 
was  so  strong  that  the  Council,  much  against 
its  will,  had  to  call  on  Seumaisin,  who,  by  the 
way  was  not  present,  to  correct  the  nuisance, 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  141 


otherwise  he  would  be  proceeded  against. 
The  Doctor  was  surprised  at  his  success. 
He  would  now  proceed  in  like  manner  with 
the  other  opponents  of  the  resolution  who 
happened  to  live  in  his  district  and  whose 
premises  were  in  bad  order.  Dr.  Moylan 
would  also  do  his  part.  Between  them  they 
had  agreed  to  that,  and  MacSharry  had 
volunteered  to  begin,  as  he  had  no  fear  for  his 
popularity.  He  was  an  openhearted,  kindly, 
honest  man,  attentive  to  rich  and  poor  alike 
— (the  others  were  straightforward,  indeed,  too 
but,  possibly,  were  not  so  kindly).  The 
people  knew  well  his  worth,  and  in  their 
own  way  showed  their  appreciation.  They 
were  already  tiring  of  the  "purty  caricature' ' 
class  of  councillor,  and  the  Doctor  knew  it. 
He  would  have  public  opinion  on  his  side, 
anyway,  against  Hooley,  even  though  some 
of  his  backers  well  knew  their  own  turns 
must  soon  come. 

But  his  success  was  short  lived.  Seumaisin 
settled  the  matter  nicely  for  himself .  He  can- 
vassed mightily  among  his  friends  on  the 
Council,  and  next  board-day  they  thronged 
in  and  solemnly  rescinded  the  work  of  the 
preceeding  week,  and  exonorated  Hooley 
from  all  further  responsibility. 

Dr.  MacSharry  must  have  felt  grievously 
insulted  at  some  of  the  things  that  were  said 
at  the  meeting,  but  knowing  the  true  value 
of  the  speakers,  that  the  intelligent  men  were 
with  him,  and  that  possibly  the  eyes  of  the 


142 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


people  would  be  opened  by  this  glaring 
abuse  of  power,  he  resolved  to  take  no  notice 
but  let  the  matter  drop,  for  the  present  at 
least. 

$  $  $  $  $  3;  $ 

uMuiseadh\  Mr.  Glynn,  an'  is  that  yersel'?" 

""Tis  so,  Mrs.  Carney,  an'  how  are  you? 
Did  the  dochthor  come  yet?" 

Mrs.  Carney  was  caretaker  of  Brandara 
Dispensary,  as  it  was  situated  in  a  room  of 
her  house. 

"I'm  very  well,  thank  you,  considerin'  sir 
an'  he  didn't  come  yet,  but  he  won't  be  long 
now.  Come  in  an'  have  a  hate  o'  the  fire 
while  you're  waitin'.  There's  ne'er  a  wan 
'ithin  but  young  Mr.  Hilliard.    Come  an  in!" 

"God  save  all  here!"  said  Murty,  as  he 
entered. 

"God  save  you,  Murty!"  said  Dick,  ris- 
ing to  meet  his  best  friend.  "I  hope  there's 
nothing  the  matter  with  you?" 

"Not  a  bit,  thanks  be  to  God!  but  little 
Ellen  has  a  sore  throat,  an'  we  thought  'twas 
stayin'  with  her  too  long,  so  I  rambled  up  to 
ax  the  dochtor  to  come  down  the  house.  Is 
there  anything  the  matter  with  yourself, 
Dick?  Bedad,  you're  lookin'  well,  what- 
ever." 

"Oh,"  laughed  Dick,  "I'm  only  coming  to 
ask  him  down  for  a  day's  shooting  next  week. 
To-day  is  wet,  you  know,  and  there  was 
nothing  in  paticular  to  be  done  at  home." 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  143 


"Fine  times!  Bedad,  'tis  well  for  you," 
said  Murty. 

"By  the  way,  Murty,  is  it  true  that  the 
doctor  and  Hooley,  the  tailor,  had  a  row? 
Td  like  to  know,  as  I  want  to  humbug  him 
about  it." 

"Och,  thin!  the  principal  witness  is  the 
besht  warrant  to  give  an  account  o'  it.  Ax 
Mrs.  Carney,  there?' '  and  Murty  gave  a 
hearty  laugh. 

"Had  they  a  row,  Mrs  Carney ?" 

"A  row  is  it,  Mr.  Dick?"  and  she  turned 
up  the^whites  of  her  eyes  at  the  very  thought 
of  it.  "Wait  antil  I  tell  ye.  Well,  now,  the 
Dispensary  day,  afther  Hooley  and  the  Doch- 
thor  (as  nice  a  man  as  ye'd  meet  in  a  day's 
walk,  the  crature)  had  some  words  at  the 
Boord,  an'  the  same  Hooley  got  lave  from 
the  Guardians  to  have  his  house  as  dirty  as 
he  plazed,  in  he  comes  here,  pompous  like, 
and  he  half  tore,  and  he  squares  his  elbows  an' 
leaves  his  sthick  on  the  table. 

'"Mrs.  Carney?'  says  he,  the  same  as  if 
he  never  laid  eyes  an  me  before. 

'The  same,'  says  I. 

'I  come  in  here,'  says  he  wut  a  roar,  'as 
a  Disthrict  Councillor.' 

'No  matter  what  y'are,'  says  I,  'don't  be 
makin'  such  nise,  says  I,  'for  the  Dochthor 
is  leshenin'  to  Mike  Delaney's  lungs  wut  his 
telescope,'  says  I,  'an'  don't  want  no  nise, 
not  as  much  as  the  buzzin'  o'  a  fly,'  says  I. 


144 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


'You  an'  the  Dochthor  may  go  be  hanged !' 
says  he. 

'Hould  that  row  there!'  says  the  Doch- 
thor, from  the  room  beyant. 

'Tarnation  from  his  soul!'  says  Hooley, 
'does  he  tell  me,  a  Disthrict  Councillor,  to 
hould  that  row?' 

'He  do,'  says  I,  'he  do,  Hooley,'  says  I, 
'an'  what's  more,  he'll  make  ye  do  his 
biddin',  says  I.  'Be  this  an'  be  that,'  says  I, 
'he'll  come  out  to  ye,  if  ye  don't  whisht 
aisy!' 

'Do  ye  know  who  ye'r  spakin'  to,  ma'am?' 
says  he.  'I'll  have  none  o'  yer  impidince. 
I'll  get  the  dispinsary  our  this!  Gi'  me  none 
o'  yer  chat!'  says  he. 

'Idar'ye,'  says  I.  'I'll  get  Father  Dinnis 
on  yer  thrack,  me  boy,  an'  he'll  take  none  o' 
your  chat,'  says  I. 

"Arrah!  he  lets  wan  screech  out  o'  him 
and  takes  his  camog  an'  bates  a  welt  on  the 
dispinsary  doore,  an'  fires  it  open.  Oral  if 
ye  saw  the  eye  the  dochthor  gives  at  him." 
And  she  turned  up  her  eyes  again  and  put 
her  hands  together. 

'What's  this  for?'  says  the  Dochtor. 

'That's  what  'tis  for!'  says  Hooley.  'I 
come  in  here,'  says  he,  'to  see  that  you're 
attindin'  to  yer  jooty  an'  mindin'  yer  business, 
says  he.  'I'm  a  Councillor,'  says  he,  'an'  ye'r 
only  a  Dochthor!' 

'Get  out!'  says  the  Dochthor,  threatenin' 
like. 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS. 


145 


'Get  on  wut  yer  work  now!'  says  Hooley, 
'an'  I'll  see  that  ye  do  it  proper!'  Up  he 
goes  o'  wan  jump  on  the  table  and  flung 
everything,  the  pock,  an*  the  tooth-pinchers, 
an'  the  poundher,  an'  I  don't  know  what 
else,  o'  wan  'rooloobaloo'  on  the  floore.  The 
Dochthor  changed  colour  and  drew  his  breath 
an'  thin  he  says  quietly: — 

'Very  well,  me  man.  Til  lave  ye  there 
an'  we'll  seeV  an'  the  poor  man  was  goin'  to 
walk  out. 

'What  about  me,  Dochthor?'  says  poor, 
sick  Mike  Delaney. 

'Can't  help  it,'  says  the  Dochthor;  'you 
must  come  up  to  the  house  to  me.' 

'Oral  Dochthor,  a  mhuirnin,1  says  I,  'I'll 
go  for  the  peelers!' 

'No!'  says  he,  '  Mrs.  Carney,  I'll  settle 
this  hayro.  I  could  put  him  out  if  I  liked,' 
says  he. 

'Could  ye'?  says  the  ould,  lame  cripple 
o'  a  tailor,  an'  he  shakes  his  fisht  in  the  Doch- 
thor's  face  an'  gives  him  a  kick  o'  his  lame  fut 
in  the  shin.  Wut  that,  the  Dochthor  cot 
him  by  the  cape  o'  the  jacket. 

'  If  ye  wor  a  dacint  lookin'  article  itself,' 
says  he,  '  I'd  have  wan  satisfactory  box  at 
ye;  but  there,'  says  he,  'out  ye'll  go  now!'  an' 
he  lifts  him  up  an'  gives  a  shake  or  two,  an' 
thin  carries  him,  scramin,'  to  the  door  an' 
gives  him  wan  pitch  into  the  middle  o'  the 
street. 

'Be  off!'  says  he. 


146 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


'Glory,  sir!'  says  I,  and  thin  the  Doch- 
thor  wint  back  to  Mike  Delaney,  wut  a 
smile  on  him;  but  sure  the  tailor  wint  squarin' 
on  the  street  abroad,  an'  he  offerin'  him  out 
to  fight. 

'There,'  says  I,  'if  ye  haven't  enough?', 
an'  I  flung  the  ould  camog  he  left  after 
him,  an'  hot  him  across  the  two  knees  wut 
it. 

'Take  that,'  says  I,  'an'  go  home!' 

"Och!  thin  he  wint  frantic  mad  intirely, 
an'  who  should  be  comin'  up  the  road  but 
Sergeant  Henaghan,  an'  there  an'  thin  up  to 
the  sergeant's  nose,  I  'timidated  Hooley,an' 
sure  only  the  Dochthor  ran  out,  Hooley'd  be 
marched  off  to  the  'lock-up.' 

'Don't  mind  him  Sergeant,'  says  he,  'I 
have  a  crow  to  pluck  with  this  lad  yet,  and 
he'll  have  enough  o'  it  whin  he's  done  wut 
me!' 

'Very  well,  Dochthor,'  says  the  Sergeant, 
an'  he  gives  Hooley  a  push.  'Go  home 
quiet  now,'  says  he,  'or  'twill  be  worse  for  ye!' 

'An'  faix!  I  tell  ye,  Hooley  did." 

"That's  simply  awful,"  said  Dick,  "and 
what  makes  fellows  like  that  so  anxious  to 
get  elected?" 

"Ah,  thin,"  said  Murty,  with  a  wink, 
"you're  young,  but  you'll  learn!" 

'Arrah,  Mr.  Dick!  have  sinse!  Sure  an' 
maybe  'tis  well  worth  their  while  to  get  in," 
and  Mrs.  Carney  gave  a  wise  shake  of  her 
head.    She  had  in  her  words  and  gesture  ex- 


DR.  MACSHARRY  EXAMINED  HIS  MOTIVES  IN  THE  MATTER 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  147 


plained  the  anxiety  of  some  people  to  get 
elected  on  the  Councils. 
Just  then  the  doctor  came. 

War  was  declared.  Dr.  MacSharry  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  act.  He  had  before- 
hand examined  his  motives  in  the  matter: 
"Was  it  vindictiveness,  or  really  a  desire  to 
do  good  that  urged  him  to  take  extreme  mea- 
sures against  Seumaisin  Hooley?"  he  asked 
himself  again  and  again.  At  last  he  decided 
that  since  the  country  must  be  saved  from 
the  ravages  of  disease,  and  since  the  District 
Council  had  shirked  its  duty  in  regard  to 
sanitary  laws,  extreme  measures  should  be 
taken;  and  it  was  most  fitting  that  the  first 
object  of  his  attack  should  be  the  chief  op- 
ponent of  progress,  whose  case  would  call 
public  attention  to  itself,  first,  because  he 
was  a  District  Councillor  himself,  and  second- 
ly, because  he  was  the  owner  of  the  dirtiest 
house  and  premises  in  the  rural  district!  So 
Seumaisin  Hooley  was  indicted  "wansht 
more,"  as  himself  said. 

The  Council  refusing  to  proceed  against 
the  aforesaid  Seumaisin  Dr.  MacSharry  had 
recourse  to  other  measures. 

He  reported  the  case  directly  to  the  Local 
Government  Board  —  (a  foreign  institution 
must  protect  us  for  our  own  sakes),  —  laying 
special  emphasis  on  the  Council's  refusal  to 
act,  and  immediately  the  District  Inspector 


148 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


of  Police  was  instructed  to  make  another 
independent  report;  this  he  did  through  the 
local  Sergeant  of  Constabulary,  Henaghan, 
whom  we  already  know.  This  was  in  turn 
sent  to  the  Local  Government  Board,  and  on 
its  being  approved,  it  only  remained  for  the 
police  authorities  to  apply  to  the  magistrates 
sitting  in  Petty  Sessions  for  power  to  pro- 
secute, and  the  District  Council  could  no 
longer  interfere.  By  a  majority  of  three  to 
one  —  the  one  being  the  protesting  Thady 
Casey,  "Esquare,"  J.  P.,  —  who  saw  people 
"livin'  in  houses  as  bad  if  not  worse,  an'  they 
wor  alive.  Mr.  Hooley  was  an  ould  man 
enough,  an",  his  worship  thought,  'a  shtanding* 
testimony  that  the  state  o'  his  house  was 
not  unhealthy,  but,  on  the  contrary, 
perducin'  to  health/ 1  ("Hear,  hear,"  in 
court).  And  Mr.  Thady  Casey  pursed  his 
lips,  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  looked  at  the 
crowd  in  court,  and  thought  within  himself 
that  everyone  he  saw  before  him  be- 
lieved him  to  be  what  he  was  not  (except 
in  his  own  mind)  a  "foine  fellow  wut  a  lot 
o'  foine  common  sinse  in  a  level  head!" 

He  didn't  much  mind  being  in  a  minority  of 
one,  as  he  had  succeeded  in  making  himself 
conspicuous,  in  showing  himself  a  "defindher 
o'  the  wake,"  and  in  a  broad,  abstract  way 
making  an  ass  of  himself  generally,  (though 
this  last  point  escaped  his  worship's  notice.) 

'Twas  vain,  the  case  went  against  Seumaisin 
Hooley  and  he  was  ordered  to  rectify  the 
causes  of  complaint  before  a  month! 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  149 


But  Seumaisinlet  the  whole  matter  slip  by# 
4 'Not  a  ha'porth  o'  heecTll  I  give  thim,  lads  . 
The  council  '11  sthand  be  me,  an'  the  share- 
man  too,  an'  the  resht  may  go  fwhishlin'  for 
all  I  care!"  and  the  month  went  by. 
Seumaisin  was  a  second  time  brought  to  court. 
Though  the  "shareman"  was  there,  the  case 
was  not  dismissed,  but  it  was  decided  not  to 
fine  him,  but  give  him  one  other  month  to 
"tidy  up  his  place." 

Before  the  month  was  up  the  unfortunate 
Hooley,  was  stricken  down  with  diphtheria. 
His  wife,  an  old  half-stupid  woman,  was  able 
to  give  him  but  poor  attendance,  and  the  neigh- 
bours, though  showing  their  charity  and  kind- 
ness in  a  very  practical  manner,  yet  did  not 
care  about  going  into  the  house  at  all  and 
thereby  spreading  the  disease  far  and  wide. 
Dr.  MacSharry  was  the  medical  attendant, 
as  Seumaisin  lived  in  his  district,  and,  to  his 
credit  be  it  said,  was  even  more  kind  and 
generous  to  his  old  foe  than  to  ordinary  pa- 
tients, just  to  prove  he  had  not  before  acted 
vindictively.  Yet  he  had  to  go  one  step 
further,  and  though  he  fully  realised  what 
Hooley's  feelings  would  be,  he  ordered  him 
removed  to  the  Fever  Hospital  attached  to 
the  Cathermore  Workhouse. 

******* 

How  very  different  Hooley' s  house  was 
from  the  neat,  lime  washed,  rose  wreathed 
cottages  about  it? 


150 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


The  air  in  the  room  was  heavy,  and  little 
light  succeeded  in  getting  through  the  dust- 
dimmed  panes  of  the  small  window  that  had 
not  been  opened,  at  least  within  the  memory 
of  the  traditional  ' 'oldest  inhabitant.' '  The 
earthen  floor  was  damp,  a  broken-legged 
table,  leaned  for  support  against  the  wall, 
which,  was  smoked  yellow  and  disfigured 
with  long  dirty  lines  of  diluted  soot 
extending  from  an  indescribable  ceiling 
to  the  floor.  The  bed,  to  say  the  least  of  it, 
could  not  be  comfortable,  there  was  no  wash- 
stand,  no  basin,  no  towel-rail;  the  only  clean 
article  in  the  room  was  the  chair,  covered 
with  a  borrowed  clean  cloth,  on  which  the 
Blessed  Sacrament  and  Holy  Oils  had  rested 
a  short  time  before. 

Father  Dennis  O'Dwyer  did  not  wish  to 
delay  longer  than  necesssary  in  the  sick  room, 
yet  did  not  like  to  leave  until  he  had  tried  to 
persuade  stubborn  Seumas  Hooley  to  sub- 
mit to  the  inevitable  and  avoid  trouble  by 
willingly  obeying  the  doctor's  orders. 

"How  on  earth,"  he  wondered,  "can  he 
prefer  this  squalor  to  a  place  where  he  will 
be  cleanly  and  properly  taken  care  of?  It 
surpasses  me,  anyway.' ' 

"Better  take  the  doctor's  advice,  Seumas," 
he  said  "and  go." 

"No,  nor  the  divil  a  foot,  beggin'  yer  rever- 
ince's  pardon,"  replied  Seumas  weakly. 

"And  why?"  asked  the  priest. 

"That's  the  why,"  said  Seumas,  "and  there 
it's  now  for  you,  sir." 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  151 


"But  what's  the  reason ?"  repeated  Father 
O'Dwyer. 

"A  Hooley  never  died  in  the  workhouse, 
Father,"  answered  Seumas,  "and,  bedad,  I 
won't  be  the  first  —  an' —  an' —  an' —  me  a 
disthrict  councillor,  too.  Arrah,  have  a  bit 
o'  sinse,  Father." 

Argument  with  such  a  man  was  useless,  so 
the  law  had  to  take  its  course  and  a  Hooley 
was  compelled,  for  the  first  time  in  history, 
to  go  to  the  workhouse  —  and,  greatest  hu- 
miliation of  all,  to  go  in  the  "Poorhouse  Car" 
—  the  last  vehicle  an  Irishman  desires  to 
travel  in  —  with  the  possible  exception  of  a 
hearse. 


"THE  OLD  PEW  NEAR  THE  ALTAR." 


HE    O'Kellys,"    Murty  Glynn  told 


A  me,  "wor  as  nice  an'  as  dacint  a 
family  an*  as  good  neighbours  as  ever  lived 
in  Clochfada.  Full  and  plenty  of  everything 
they  had,  an'  if  they  had  itself,  they  had  big 
hearts,  an'  never  saw  a  neighbour  in  want. 
When  hard  times  come  an'  left  many's  the 
one  in  poverty,  the  Kellys  'gave  what  they 
could  spare,  an'  more,  but  they  had  the  name 
o'  great  riches,  an'  no  one  thought,  least  of 
all  thimselves,  that  one  o'  thim  ud  be  depin- 
din'  on  charity. 

However  the  unexpected  sometimes  hap- 
pens, an'  it  did  in  this  case.  One  year  the 
murrain  killed  almost  all  their  cattle,  an' 
before  they  could  right  thimselves  something 
happened  the  sheep  till  there  wasn't  a  ha'- 
porth  left  on  the  land  and  thin  in  a  couple  o' 
years  came  the  failure  o'  the  crops  an'  be- 
tune  one  thing  an'  another,  although  the 
whole  countryside  lost  in  proportion,  as  much 
as  thim,  the  O'Kellys  wor  as  poor  as  the  poor- 
est. One  after  another  the  boys  an'  girls  wor 
forced  to  emigrate,  till  at  last,  out  o'  the  seven 
children  they  reared,  but  one  remained  to 
thim,  the  youngest  son,  an'  a  delicate  boy 
he  was  too .  . . 

Year  after  year  the  number  that  sat  in 
the  family  pew  next  the  altar  rail  was  comin' 
down,  till  instead  o'  the  nine  we  used  to  see 


154 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


there  wor  only  three;  two  of  thim  tooouldto 
begin  to  build  their  fortunes  all  over  agin,  an' 
one  too  sickly  to  take  any  great  interest  in 
work. 

Still  an'  all  the  rint  was  got  together  some- 
how, an'  even  yet  the  little  they  had  was 
ginerously  shared,  though  no  one  knew  the 
struggle  that  was  made  to  have  that  little. 
An'  durin'  all  the  years,  down  to  the  time  I'm 
spakin'  of,  the  Kellys  drove  to  Mass  every 
Sunday  an'  holiday,  an'  whin  they  wor  poor 
an'  reduced,  an'  whin  one  car  could  carry  all 
that  was  left  o'  thim,  they  did  the  same  thing, 
always  arrivm'  twinty  minutes  before  the 
time  to  give  'herself  a  chance  to  'do'  the 
Stations  o'  the  Cross,  an*  himself' 9  an  oppor- 
tunity to  have  a  talk  with  the  people  from  the 
other  side  o'  the  parish,  an7  to  let  Jim  —  that 
was  the  son  —  put  the  horse  up  in  Duffy's 
yard. 

John  O' Kelly  was  the  most  respected  man 
in  the  parish,  an*  he  deserved  it;  he  was  one  o' 
the  few  that  wor  hardly  ever  addressed  by 
their  Christian  names  but  as  'Mr.'  an'  'Sir', 
so  you  can  know  what  notice  we  always  took 
o'  thim  an'  how  everyone  missed  thim  whin 
one  Sunday,  their  pew  was  impty. 

"I  felt  very  lonesome  at  Mass  to-day, 
Murty,"  says  ould  Mrs.  Flynn  to  me.  "Nay- 
ther  Mr.  O'Kelly  nor  herself  not  the  son 
wor  in  it,  an',  mind  you,  it  had  a  great  effect 
on  me.  I  hope  nothing  sarious  kept  them  at 
home?" 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  155 


'Troth  thin,  I  tell  you,  ma'am,"  says  I, 
"that  it  must  be  something  sarious  for  no 
small  rayson  ud  keep  John  O' Kelly  from 
Mass." 

An'  it  was  something  sarious.  Jim,  the 
only  boy  at  home  with  thim,  got  a  wettin' 
at  the  fair  o'  Ballyoran  an'  thin  betune  stand- 
in'  about  all  day  in  the  rain,  an'  neglectin'  to 
change  his  clothes  whin  he  come  home,  he 
felt  in  a  bad  way  an'  midday  on  Friday  he 
had  to  take  to  his  bed.  Sunday  mornin'  the 
mother  found  him  tossin'  about  in  a  fever  an' 
he  ravin'.  Nayther  o'  thim  could  think  o' 
lavin'  the  house,  an'  that  was  the  first  time 
I  ever  remimber  o'  their  losin'  Mass.  They 
got  the  priest  an'  sent  for  the  doctor  so  quiet- 
ly that  no  one  of  us  knew  a  bit  about  their 
trouble  —  except  the  immediate  neighbours. 

But  sure  soon  we  all  knew  it.  The  boy's 
health  was  always  so  poor  that  he  never  ral- 
lied an'  on  the  followin'  Friday  we  buried  him 
in  Killeira.    May  God  rest  his  soul! 

The  father  and  mother  were  very  lonely. 
They  were  both  far  beyond  middle  age,  an' 
misfortunes  had  put  the  wide  ocean  betune 
themselves  an'  six  o'  their  children  an'  God 
had  taken  the  seventh.  Not  one  was  left  to 
look  after  or  help  thim. 

Still  they  struggled  on  somehow,  but  the 
strain  was  too  great  for  one  o'  thim  an'  just 
two  years  afterwards  John  O'Kelly  was  a 
widower  all  alone  in  the  big  farm  house  once 
so  full  o'  life  an'  fun,  an'  on  Sunday  he  sat  by 
himself  in  the  old  pew  next  the  rails! 


156 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


Hundreds  an*  hundreds  o'  pounds  had  John 
himself  paid  in  rint  since  he  become  owner  an' 
sure  'tis  in  thousands  what  his  forefathers 
paid  before  him  must  be  counted:  I  suppose 
the  amount  o'  money  given  to  the  landlord 
by  the  O'Kelly's  ud  have  bought  the  place 
out  over  an'  over  agin ;  yet  because  a  lone  ould 
man  let  a  few  year's  arrears  slip  up  an'  be- 
cause a  stranger  from  the  next  county  offered 
a  higher  price  than  he  used  to  pay,  0' Kelly 
found  himself  thrown  on  the  mercies  o'  the 
world.  Tis  no  wonder  we  have  a  land  ques- 
tion to  settle  in  Ireland. 

Many  wor  blamin'  the  children  for  not 
comin'  home  before  the  last  blow  fell  but 
John  himself  often  told  me  that  he  never 
let  on  to  thim  how  poorly  he  was  for,  says  he, 
"they're  all  married  an'  maybe  have  enough  o' 
care  o'  their  own.  'Tisn't  right  to  ax  any 
o'  thim  to  break  up  their  own  home  for  unless 
they  have  a  bit  o'  money  saved  they  have 
nothing  to  start  on  here  but  the  bare  land 
an'  the  house;  an'  money  can't  be  picked  up 
on  the  streets  in  America  no  more  than  in 
Ireland." 

It  often  occured  to  myse)f  to  write  to  the 
the  eldest  boy,  an'  tell  him  the  whole  story, 
but  I  didn't  like  somehow  to  be  considered 
meddlesome  —  though  many's  the  time  since 
I  regretted  not  doin'  so. 

But  at  last  when  he  was  homeless  an' 
depindin  on  the  neighbours  an'  frinds  for  the 
bite  he  ate,  he  up  an'  told  the  children  him- 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  157 


self,  an'  sure  by  return  post  he  got  his  pass- 
age an'  a  tidy  sum  from  thim,  an'  the  offer  o' 
six  homes  as  long  as  he  lived.  You  see  there 
was  no  use  in  any  o'  thim  comin'  home  now 
as  there  was  a  stranger  in  their  place.  Poor 
O'Kelly  was  almost  heartbroken.  It  was  his 
greatest  wish  to  die  where  the  O'Kellys  for 
ginerations  had  died,  an'  mingle  his  clay  with 
theirs  in  Killeira. 

I  can  scarcely  get  myself  to  talk  o'  the 
last  Sunday  he  wint  to  Mass  here  before  he 
sailed.  He  stood  for  a  whileen  lookin'  at 
the  ould  pew,  polished  with  age  an'  battered 
an'  notched,  an'  all  over  it  the  names  of 
O'Kellys,  scraped  with  horsenails,  or  pin- 
knives  when  they  wor  too  young  to  think  o' 
where  they  wor.  He  stood  there  a  full  mi- 
nute thinkin'  o'  happy  days  gone  by,  thin- 
kin',  o'  the  good  wife  that  sat  there  beside 
him  an'  o'  the  children  an'  his  own  father  an' 
mother  an'  brothers  an'  sisters.  It  recalled 
thim  all  to  his  mind  an'  the  big  tears  blind- 
ed him.  He  rubbed  his  hand  gintly  on 
the  back  of  the  seat  an'  was  turnin'  away  when 
a  second  thought  struck  him,  an'  he  stooped 
and  kissed  the  ,  support  in  front  where  his 
poor  wife,  God  rest  her!  use  to  lean  her  hands 
whin  she'd  be  sayin'  the  Rosary.  Thin 
with  his  head  bowed  down  he  wint  out,  an' 
though  almost  every  man  woman  an'  child 
shook  his  hand  an'  said  'God  speed',  I  don't 
believe  he  heard  or  saw  one  o'  thim.  He 
wint  back  the  road  with  the  frinds  that  had 


158 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


taken  him  in,  an'  next  day  started  for  the 
Cover 

"What  about  the  grabber  that  took  his 
farm?"  I  asked. 

"He  didn't  thrive  an'  he  didn't  deserve  to." 
said  Murty.  "He  came  a  stranger  an'  re- 
mained a  stranger,  for  not  one  frind  did  he 
make  till  he  gave  it  up  five  years  later. 
He  left  an'  then  the  green  fields  o'  the  O'Kel- 
lys  became  a  grazin'  farm  an'  their  home  a 
herd's  house  till  the  commissioners  purchased 
the  property." 

aj»  Sj.  «{»  «$•  !§»  «$S 

The  late  Very  Reverend  Parish  Priest  by 
his  will  left  all  he  died  possessed  of — 
except  some  legacies  for  masses, —  for 
the  improvement  and  repair  of  the  Church  of 
Clochfada,  in  which  he  had  served  God  for 
so  many  years.  One  of  the  improvements 
that  almost  immediately  took  place  was  the 
removal  of  all  the  old  private  pews  —  there 
were  only  a  few  of  them  indeed, —  and  putting 
rather  handsome  seats  over  the  whole  floor 
space.  As  now  there  was  accomodation  for 
everybody  the  private  ownership  of  pews 
gradually  disappeared  until  in  less  than  a 
year  it  was  almost  forgotten.  Of  the  cum- 
brous old  things  that  had  served  before  some 
were  sold,  some  burned,  ard  a  few  stored  in 
the  parochial  barn. 

Imagine  my  surprise  when  a  few  Sun- 
days ago    happening  to  look    down  while 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  159 


arranging  the  chalice  on  the  altar  before  Mass, 
I  saw  that  one  of  the  new,  good-looking  seats 
was  removed,  and  one  of  the  old  unsightly 
benches,  notched  and  scraped  and  covered 
with  initials,  in  its  place.  I  said  nothing 
at  the  time,  but  I  made  up  my  mind  to  look 
into  the  matter  later  on.  As  I  was  about  to 
Vest'  I  heard  some  little  commotion  in  the 
church.  The  sacristy  door  was  open  and  I 
looked  out.  The  people  who  were  in  the 
passage-way  seeking  vacant  seats  were  has- 
tily crushing  aside  to  make  way  for  a  fine, 
stately,  white  haired,  old  gentleman  who  was 
coming  up  the  aisle.  He  advanced  almost  to 
the  altar  rails  and  without  lifting  his  eyes  off 
the  ground  genuflected,  then  for  the  first 
time  he  noticed  that  he  was  at  the  old  pew, 
— the  only  old  one  in  the  church.  He  gazed 
steadily  at  it  for  a  moment  then  threw  him- 
self upon  it  and  sobbed  as  if  his  heart  would 
break.  It  was  John  O' Kelly  back  to  his  own 
again, 

I  in  my  reservedness  did  not  know  the  ex- 
planation of  what  bad  occurred  until  Murty 
Glynn  told  me  later.  Mr.  O'Kelly  was  being 
restored  as  an  evicted  tenant  and  when 
some  of  the  men,  his  old  companions,  heard 
it,  they  got  a  few  young  fellows  to  put  back 
his  own  old  pew,  which  happened  to  be  one 
of  those  in  the  priest's  barn.  This  the 
young  fellows  did  and  for  fear  there  should  be 
any  objection  on  the  part  of  the  clergy  they 
acted  with  the  greatest  secrecy. 


160 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


They  regretted  their  action  however  when 
they  saw  O'Kelly's  sorrow  renewed,  but  he 
was  glad  and  thankful  that  they  did  it;  so 
much  so  that  he  begged  it  to  be  left  there  in 
its  old  place  as  long  as  he  lived;  and  there  it 
is  yet,  and  every  Sunday  John  O' Kelly  oc- 
cupies it  with  his  second  son,  his  wife  and 
their  children  who  as  soon  as  their  own  affairs 
were  fixed  up  beyond  the  water  had  come 
home  to  the  old  man. 


'WHAT  RUNS  IN  THE  BLOOD."* 


SEUMAS  O'DALY  was  "well-off" 
He  possessed  a  nice  piece  of  land 
besides  a  good  fishing  boat,  and  then,  he  was 
"half-shares"  in  a  second  boat  with  Michael 
Mor  Mac  a  Bhaird.  That  was  an  arrange- 
ment  that  suited  him  well,  for  Seumas  had 
no  help.  Poor  Eibhlin  was  dead,  and  left 
him  their  little  son  Cronan  to  love  and  work 
for,  and,  if  God  willed  it  so,  to  be  his  helper 
in  a  few  years.  He  was  "well-off";  and, 
though  he  felt  keenly  Eibhlin's  loss,  he  was 
was  happy  in  his  child.  His  widowed  sister 
kept  house  for  him  and  looked  after  his 
little  son,  and  he  worked  and  saved  that  he 
might  have  something  to  leave  when  God 
called  him  to  Himself. 

Micheal  Mor  was  poor.  He  had  a  large 
family  too,  but  they  were  able  and  willing 
to  work.  The  sons  manned  the  two  boats 
for  the  half -share  in  one  and  they  earned 
from  Seumas  as  well  by  labouring  on  his 
farm.  So  the  arrangement  suited  them  al- 
so; they  were  all  satisfied,  and  lived  side  by 
side  in  such  mutual  friendship  that  one  family 
paid  as  much  attention  to  the  interests  of 
the  other  as  though  they  were  of  one  house- 
hold. 

Four  years  passed  by.  Little  Cronan  was 
growing  quickly  and  could  soon  go  to  school, 
He  was  a  good  sort,  full  of  life  and  spirit, 

•B*  kind  permission  of  Ed.  *C.  7.  M: 


162 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


and  hardy  as  the  son  of  O'Daly  should  be. 
He  was  the  idol  of  his  father;  everything 
he  did  was  right,  according  to  the  latter,  and 
Cronan  spent  a  happy  childhood  free  from 
punishment  and  restraint.  When  his  school- 
days began,  his  father  seemed  to  be  even  more 
deeply  interested  in  him.  At  night  he  would 
watch  him  prepare  his  lessons  for  the  mor- 
row, and  as  he  smoked  by  the  fireside,  he  would 
rest  his  chin  on  his  hand  and  gaze  thought- 
fully at  his  young  son  spelling  out  the  ''hard 
words' '  or  making  crooked  ungainly  letters 
on  the  slate  laid  on  his  little  knees. 

Every  Sunday,  before  Mass,  Seumas  would 
"drop  across' '  the  Schoolmaster  and  have  a 
little  chat,  and  as  surely  as  he  would  the  con- 
versation, sooner  or  later  turned  to  "that  young 
lad  o'  mine."  (Seumas  always  spoke  Eng- 
lish in  conversing  with  "the  Masther"). 

They  lived  a  simple  sort  of  life  in  Cuan-na- 
Sgiath.  There  wasn't  much  variety  in  it  for 
anyone,  but  for  poor  lonely  Seumas  there 
would  be  none  at  all  were  he  not  blessed  with 
"that  young  lad  o'  his"  who  gave  him  some- 
thing to  think  of  and  work  for. 

Four  more  years  slipped  away.  Cronan, 
the  Schoolmaster  said,  was  quick,  intelli- 
gent, like  many  of  his  fellows,  and  unlike 
them  inclined  to  learn,  "but,"  he  added  — 
and  in  this  the  neighbours  agreed  with  him — 
"he  is  a  little  too  lively  and  you  ought  to 
look  after  him  better." 


LITTLE  CRONAN  HAS  THE  IDEA  OF  HIS  FATHER. 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  163 


"Arrah!  sure  the  boy's  young/ '  Seumas 
would  reply.  "Do  you  want  him  to  be  a  roll 
o'  butter  without  a  hum  or  a  horn  out  o'  him. 
If  you  were  buyin'  a  horse  at  a  fair,  you'd  get 
one  with  a  bit  o'  spirit  in  him  that  ud  be 
value  for  your  money  and  ud  turn  out  all 
right.  Cronan  will  turn  out  all  right  yet, 
please  God,  so  he  will  —  when  he  gets 
sinse."  So  Cronan  grew  up,  a  frolicsome 
boy,  having  a  lot  of  his  own  way,  yet  withal 
possessed  of  a  certain  ambition  to  learn  what 
he  could;  and  fun  or  mischief  never  made 
him  any  the  less  attentive  to  his  school  les- 
sons. Before  he  was  yet  nine  years  old,  his 
father,  in  too  great  aflection,  was  already 
wondering  would  himself  be  able  to  do  1  'some- 
thing better"  for  the  boy  than  merely  leaving 
him  the  "bit  of  land  and  a  boat  and  a  half." 

"If  I  had  another  son  to  leave  them  to," 

he  would  say,  "'twould  be  very  well;  but  sure 

I'd  be  lonesome  now  if  I  had  no  little  boy 

running  about  the  house."    And  then  he 

would  recollect  himself.    "Well  amn't  I  the 

foolish  man  to  be  thinking  o'  such  things. 

Cronan  is  but  a  weeny  child  yet."  And 

though  he  thus  dismissed  the  idea  it  would 

recur  again  and  again  till  at  last  the  thought 

of  his  son's  advancement  seemed  to  have 

taken  possession  of  his  whole  mind. 

*  *  *  *  * 

Great  black  clouds  had  been  gathering  in 
the  evening,  and  hid  the  sun  and  darkened  the 
waters  of  Galway  Bay.    The  waves  topped 


164 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


with  foam  followed  one  another  up  the  shin- 
gle and  ran  back  with  a  rattle  and  a  roar  only 
to  come  on  again  with  increasing  violence 
that  foretold  the  coming  storm.  The  gentle 
breeze  that  a  while  ago  played  with  the  ri- 
pening corn  and  the  green-leaved  branches, 
now  whistled  and  moaned  through  the  tree- 
tops,  and  fiercely  lashed  the  waves  against 
the  rocks  below  and  shook  the  boats  drawn 
up  on  the  sand,  and  set  the  clouds  racing 
across  the  sky .  There  was  only  one  boat 
that  had  not  returned  in  the  early  evening. 
Micheal  Mor  had  been  at  the  market  in 
Galway  and  had  brought  little  Cronan  with 
him  to  show  him  the  Citie.  He  had  not  yet 
entered  the  inlet,  but  many  had  hoped  he 
would  be  safe  at  home  before  the  storm  came 
on  in  all  its  fury.  O'Daly  was  anxious  for 
his  son.  "Out  on  such  a  sea  as  this!"  he 
would  say,  -Til  lose  my  only  boy.  My  God, 
bring  him  safe  to  me!"  And  he  passed  near 
the  little  pier,  looking  out  to  sea  and  unheed- 
ing the  cold  spray  that  continually  dashed 
over  him.  He  was  looking  towards  Ceann- 
garbh,  and  while  he  looked,  the  strength 
came  into  the  winds,  and  he  saw  the  boat 
rounding  the  headland  tossed  about  on  the 
merciless  sea.  But  Micheal  was  a  brave 
steersman,  and  the  villagers  that  stood 
with  O'Daly  seemed  to  grow  confident  as 
they  watched  the  old  veteran  himself  at  the 
tiller.  She  raced  before  the  gale;  the  foam 
dashed  over  her,  and,  as  the  storm  increased 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  165 


she  was  many  time  lost  sight  of  as  she  slipped 
into  a  mighty  trough  of  the  sea. 

"Have  a  care  of  the  Rocks,  Micheal!  The 
Rocks,  man!  the  Rocks !"  roared  O'Daly. 
He  trembled  for  his  son's  safety,  and  called 
out  as  though  Micheal  Mor  could  hear  him. 
Micheal  only  heard  the  roar  of  the  wind  and 
the  sea,  but  he  saw  the  Rocks  look  black 
and  threatening  in  the  growing  darkness,  and 
recalled  that  many  a  boatman,  unknowing 
their  surroundings  had  smashed  on  their 
rough  jagged  edges.  Bravely  did  his  sons 
do  their  parts;  three  of  them  were  with  him; 
nor  did  the  child  of  O'Daly  show  himself  a 
coward.  He  tried  to  give  a  helping  hand  and 
had  to  be  restrained  lest  he  should  venture 
too  much  and  topple  overboard.  He  did 
not  realize  how  serious  their  position  was,  but 
he  knew  there  was  some  danger,  yet  was  not 
afraid. 

More  and  more  the  storm  increased,  and 
all  hope  died  in  the  hearts  of  those  that 
watched  from  the  shore.  They  wondered  what 
Micheal  intended  to  do.  He  dared  not  come 
straight  to  the  pier  as  the  present  direction 
of  the  boat  seemed  to  indicate.  That  would 
mean  being  dashed  to  pieces  at  their  very 
feet.  They  all  had  often  seen  such  storms, 
but  never  had  any  of  them  seen  one  of  their 
number  making  port  in  such  a  heavy  sea. 
They  had  always  somehow,  managed  to 
provide  for  bad  weather  by  a  timely  home- 
coming, or  putting  into  one  of  the  sheltery 


166 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


inlets  that  ran  in  to  the  land  here  and  there 
along  the  coast.  "Poor  Micheal,"  they 
thought,  "has  been  badly  caught.  He  can't 
land,  though  he  do  his  best."  Still  the  boat 
came  on.  "What  is  he  going  to  do?"  they 
asked  one  another.  "He'll  come  in  safe, 
take  my  word  for  it,"  said  one,  more  to  give 
courage  to  O'Daly  and  Mcheal's  wife  and 
children  than  anything  else.  The  boat 
neared  the  end  of  the  long  line  of  rocks,  and 
while  yet  three  boats  length  from  it,  Tomas, 
son  of  Micheal,  stood  at  the  boat's  side,  a 
rope  coiled  in  his  hands.  Another  few  yards 
and  they  were  almost  passing  the  outer  rock. 

"Now  Tomas,"  shouted  Micheal.  And 
Tomas  cast  the  rope  against  the  wind,  and 
it  was  carried  and  the  anchor  fell  among  the 
rocks;  a  turn  of  the  rudder,  and  the  strain 
on  the  rope  was  greatly  lessened,  and  when 
it  became  taut,  it  caused  the  boat,  to  swing 
round  —  at  great  risk  of  being  swamped  it 
is  true  —  and  shoot  in  between  the  Black 
Rock  and  the  outer  line;  and  those 
dangerous  sentinels  of  Cuan-na-Sgiath  that 
had  wrecked  many  a  hardy  fisher,  now 
sheltered  Michel's  boat  from  the  raging  sea 
outside.  How  he  steered  safely  through  the 
treacherous  hidden  rocks,  nobody  could  tell. 
Micheal  himself  could  only  say  "he  knew  the 
lie  of  every  one  of  them,  and  the  sons  made 
good  use  of  the  oars"  but  not  even  himself 
could  tell  how  he  steered  through  the  shal- 
lows near  Croc-na-Cille,  but  he  did  it,  and 


ITS  SHADOWS  AND  SUNSHINE. 


167 


with  a  will  the  men  rushed  into  the  shallower 
waters  to  haul  them  up,  and  O'Daly  was  a- 
mong  the  first;  and  when  they  were  on  the 
land  he  clasped  his  son  in  his  arms,  and 
thanked  God  for  giving  himback  to  him.  Many 
were  the  handshakes  poor  Micheal  and  his 
sons  got  as  the  villagers  gathered  around  to 
congratulate  them  on  their  skilful  seaman- 
ship and  happy  escape.  Little  Cronan  was 
carried  home  by  his  father,  who  could  not 
suffer  his  son  again  to  leave  his  sight  for  that 
night  at  least. 

All  night  the  storm  raged.  The  roofs  of 
the  little  cottages  threatened  to  collapse 
every  moment,  so  great  was  the  force  of  the 
wind.  The  rain  fell  in  torrents  and  ran  in 
streamlets  everywhere.  Fearful  gusts  swept 
down  the  chimneys  and  whistled  in  every 
crevice  of  door  and  window;  and  all  the  time 
the  sea's  rumble  could  be  heard  from  below 
as  it  heaved  and  rolled  at  war,  as  it  were, 
with  the  rocks,  and  endeavouring  to  sweep 
them  away  with  its  terrible  strength.  The 
men  gathered  by  the  firesides  talked  of  ships 
that  would  never  put  to  sea  again  after  that 
night.  The  woman  prayed  for  the  poor 
wanderers  that  would  never  reach  the  shore; 
and  the  children  were  frightened  and  felt 
sad,  in  sympathy,  it  seemed,  with  the  fear 
and  sorrow  they  read  in  the  faces  of  their 
elders.  Towards  dawn  it  became  less  violent 
yet  no  light  craft  could  live  in  such  a  sea. 
It  still  rolled  with  almost  all  the  force  of  the 
previous  night. 


168 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


All  along  the  coast  line,  was  strewn  the 
wreckage  that  told  a  dismal  tale  of  death  and 
sorrow.  Beyond  near  Ceanngarbh  a  bar- 
que was  ashore;  her  stern  was  sunk  in  the 
sea,  her  bow  elevated.  A  grating  noise 
could  be  heard  as,  heaving  with  the  undula- 
tion of  the  water,  her  keel  scraped  on  the 
rocks.  Her  masts  and  rigging  were  torn 
away,  and  it  was  plain  she  could  not  last 
much  longer  in  her  present  position.  As 
soon  as  the  tide  should  recede  a  little  more, 
she  would  split,  or  topple  over  into  the  sea 
again,  to  be  tossed  about  at  the  mercy  of  the 
waves  and  gradually  torn  asunder.  It  did 
not  take  long  for  the  news  of  the  wreck  to 
spread  through  the  village,  and  in  a  short 
time  many  were  hastening  to  the  stranded 
vessel  lest  there  should  be  any  aboard  in 
need  of  assistance. 

When  they  arrived,  a  few  of  the 
more  active  young  men  crawled  out  over 
the  rocks,  and  by  a  rope  that  dangled 
over  the  side,  succeeded  in  climbing  a- 
board  the  perilously  situated  barque.  A 
scene  of  the  wildest  disorder  met  their  gaze. 
Broken  timber  and  tangled  ropes  were  thrown 
about  everywhere.  They  saw,  too,  that  the 
boats  were  gone.  4 'Washed  away  in  the 
storm,"  they  supposed,  "or  maybe,  taken  by 
the  crew  as  their  only  chance  of  escape." 

"Arrah!  there's  not  a  sinner's  soul  alive 
in  this  place,"  said  Tomas  Mac  a  Bhaird. 


BEYOND  NEAR  CEANNGARBH  A  BARQUE  WAS  ASHORE. 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS. 


169 


'Take  a  run  over  her,  boys,  and  we'll  be  off. 
She  isn't  safe." 

As  they  approached  the  master's  cabin, 
they  heard  a  child  crying  and  calling  mourn- 
fully, "Father,  speak  to  me."  They  hastened 
forward  and  found  a  man  stretched  on  the 
floor  unconscious,  and  a  boy,  apparently 
about  five  years  of  age,  kneeling  by  his  side 
and  trying  to  awaken  him. 

They  gently  took  the  poor  boy  away,  and 
still  more  gently  lifted  the  unconscious  form 
of  the  father,  and  after  great  difficulty  man- 
aged to  get  both  safely  ashore.  They  car- 
ried the  injured  man  quickly  along  the  rough 
pathway  to  the  nearest  house,  and  while 
every  means  known  to  the  poor  fisherfolk 
were  being  used  to  restore  the  suffering 
stranger,  they  had  already  sent  for  the  priest 
and  doctor.  The  boy,  too,  was  being  looked 
after.  It  was  not  hard  to  console  him.  His 
years  saved  him  from  sorrow.  He  did  not 
know  how  seriously  his  father  had  been  in- 
jured; nor  did  he  understand  why  Seumas 
O'Daly  soon  came  to  him  and  patting  him 
on  the  head  said:  "Poor  child!  you  will 
soon  belong  to  me."  He  little  thought,  poor 
child!  that  Seumas  had  come  straight  from 
the  father's  bedside,  where  he,  on  hearing 
the  stranger  ask  for  someone  to  guard  his 
child,  had  in  his  good  nature  consented  to  do 
so. 

"My  life  has  not  been  such  a  one  as  would 
endear  me  to  my  own,"  the  dying  man  had 


170 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


said,  "and  I  would  rather  entrust  my  boy 
even  to  someone  unknown  to  me,  than,  that 
he  should  be  brought  up  to  hate  his  father's 
memory." 

Whether  he  had  previously  been  a  Catholic 
is  knowrn  only  to  Father  Carey.  However, 
he  freely  received  the  last  rites  of  the  Church 
and  calmly  passed  away  as  the  priest  recited 
the  prayers  for  the  dying. 

The  few  things  he  desired  Father  Carey 
to  make  known  were  of  little  consequence. 
He  again  gave  his  heartfelt  thanks  to  O'Daly 
for  taking  charge  of  his  child.  He  was  sorry 
his  thanks  were  all  he  could  leave  him,  for 
he  was  never  provident,  and  had  at  most  the 
couple  of  pounds  that  would  pay  the  expenses 
of  his  burial.  The  barque  he  was  master  of 
had  had  no  cargo.  They  were  sailing  from 
Galway  with  ballast.  And  when  the  storm 
came  on  them  suddenly,  they  were  too  close 
to  the  rocks  to  make  any  great  effort  to  save 
her.  His  crew  had  refused  to  obey  him,  and 
finally  had  taken  the  boats  as  their  only  hope 
of  safety.  He  took  his  chance  with  the  ship 
and  kept  his  boy  within  his  cabin.  As  he 
was  scrambling  down  the  hatchway  a  piece 
of  wreckage  struck  him,  and  how  he  reached 
his  cabin  he  did  not  know,  nor  did  he  remem- 
ber anything  further  till  he  found  himself 
among  them  on  shore. 

"I  leave  the  boy  to  a  stranger's  charity/ ' 
he  concluded.  "He  will  be  better  cared  for 
by  him  than  he  would  be  by  me.    Let  him 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  171 


bear  his  adopter's  name,  and  let  mine  be 
forgotten  —  or  rather  unknown. 

The  doctor  came  too  late.  Life's  battle 
had  ended  for  the  poor  seaman: — "a  life 
that  seemed  to  have  been  more  or  less  a 
failure;"  so  thought  the  villagers,  but  they 
left  their  thoughts  unspoken.  They  buried 
them  in  the  grave  they  gave  him  an  Ard- 
nanaomh. 

Seumas  O'Daly  felt  it  was  God  that  gave 
him  this  second  child.  He  would  look  on 
Jack  —  so  the  boy  was  named, —  as  his  own 
son,  and  would  treat  him  as  such,  and  Cro- 
nan's  ambition  should  now  have  free  scope  as 
far  as  his  means  would  allow. 

Soon  the  stir  caused  by  the  wreck  calmed 
down  and  things  went  on  in  their  accustom- 
ed groove  in  Cuan  na  Sgiath.  Seumas,  true 
to  his  word,  gave  every  opportunity  to  Cro- 
nan  to  learn,  encouraged  him  to  read,  and 
bought  him  any  books  he  needed.  Cronan 
too  treated  Jack  as  a  brother;  and  the  latter 
becoming  adapted  to  his  surroundings,  was 
soon  like  any  of  the  village  boys  in  habit  and 
language.  He  was  fond  of  the  sea,  and, 
when  out  in  O' Daly's  boats,  was  more  care- 
less and  daring  than  even  his  wildest  play- 
mate would  dream  of  being;  yet  in  the  pre- 
sence of  his  elders  he  was  silent  and  reserved, 
nay  even  "sheepish."  As  time  advanced  he 
observed  that  O' Daly's  life  seemed  to  be 
centred  entirely  in  Cronan. 

He    failed    to    grasp  how  very  natural 


172 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


it  was  that  it  should  be  so,  and  an  awful 
jealously  of  his  companion  even  now  seized 
his  childish  mind.  Outwardly  he  was  affec- 
tionate as  before,  yet  inwardly  he  was  be- 
ginning to  hate  O' Daly's  son.  It  seemed  part 
of  the  child's  nature  to  hate  and  act  a  double 
part.  Sometimes,  indeed,  he  was  at  no  pains 
to  conceal  his  real  feelings  from  Cronan  him- 
self, but,  immediately  afterwards,  he  would 
be  smiling  and  friendly  as  before,  and  Cronan 
would  wonder  how  he  had  thought  the  other 
wished  him  ill.  As  time  passed  Jack's  out- 
bursts of  passion  became  more  frequent,  yet 
Cronan  still  hoped  that  in  time  the  other 
would  be  able  to  overcome  his  feelings,  and 
that  better  relations  would  exist  between 
them.  There  were  no  signs,  however,  of 
those  hopes  being  realized.  Jack  hated  him. 
O'Daly  never  for  a  moment  suspected  that 
any  evil  thoughts  were  entertained  by  his 
adopted  son.  He  scarcely  ever  interfered 
in  Cronan's  amusements  before,  so  now  he 
let  the  two  boys  have  most  things  their  own 
way.  If  he  ever  did  happen  to  notice  any- 
thing "out  of  the  way,"  he  paid  no  attention 
in  accordance  with  an  old  principle  of  his: 
"Boys  will  be  boys  till  they  grow  and  get 
sense.  Sure,  you  might  as  well  be  whistling 
a  horn  pipe  for  Paidin  Ban's  ould  mare  as  to 
be  tryin'  to  talk  sense  to  a  boy."  That  was 
Seumas'  notion. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  the  New  Year,  and 
Cronan  had  at  last  bid  "good-bye"  to  the 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  173 


National  School  and  gone  to  the  Diocesan 
Seminary.  That  was  a  great  event  in  the 
poor  boy's  life,  and  for  days  before  he  left, 
he  was  continually  talking  of  it. 

"Isn't  it  grand,  Jack,"  he  once  said,  "to 
be  going  off  to  College.  You  wouldn't 
know  what  I'd  turn  out  to  be!" 

"You  wouldn't  know,"  answered  Jack  sul- 
lenly, and  he  walked  off  towards  the  pier. 
Cronan  could  only  wonder  what  had  made  his 
companion  angry  now;  and  Jack  was  silent 
and  moody  all  that  evening;  indeed  he  did 
not  speak  much  till  the  other  had  gone  away. 
All  the  time  he  imagined  it  a  great  slight, 
that  Cronan  should  get  opportunities  that 
were  denied  to  himself.  He  could  only  look 
at  the  matter  from  his  own  view-point;  and 
even  after  Cronan's  departure,  when  he  had 
somewhat  regained  his  usual  light-hearted- 
ness  —  outwardly  at  least  —  he  still  consider- 
ed himself  aggrieved  and  resolved  to  have 
satisfaction  in  some  way.  He  often  meditated 
how  he  too  might  induce  O'Daly  to  give  him 
a  chance.  He  believed  he  was  as  clever  as 
Cronan,  "but  then,"  he  reflected,  "Seumas  is 
not  able  to  pay  for  two  of  us,"  and  immediate- 
ly the  wild  idea  seized  him,  even  though  he 
was  yet  scarcely  twelve  years  of  age,  that 
there  should  be  only  one  of  them,  and  that 
should  be  himself. 

Oftentimes  he  would  row  out  on  the  Bay 
in  O' Daly's  "curach,"  and  remain  abroad  by 
himself  till  dark,  and  then  he  would  go  home 


174 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


and  sit  in  silence  while  a  few  neighbours 
smoked  and  talked  by  the  fireside.  At  other 
times  he  brought  boys  from  the  village  with 
him  and  took  a  keen  delight  in  the  terror  his 
wild  pranks  would  cause  them;  now,  he  al- 
almost  overturned  the  boat  by  his  clever 
handling  of  the  oars ;  now  he  almost  threw  them 
into  the  sea  by  a  slight  trip  with  his  foot  and 
a  lurch  of  the  light  "curach",  and  he  roared 
with  laughter  while  they  screamed  with  fear. 
Yet  he  could  induce  the  very  same  victims 
to  go  with  him  time  after  time.  All  this 
was  the  working  out  of  his  designs  against 
O'Daly's  son.  He  wanted  to  be  an  adept  in 
those  dangerous  tricks,  that  he  might  use 
them  for  his  own  purpose  when  Cronan  came 
home  on  a  vacation. 

Summer-time  came  and  Seumas  was  de- 
lighted when  he  saw  the  boat  that  brought 
home  his  son  touching  the  little  pier.  He 
was  proud  of  the  boy,  and  well  he  might,  for 
Cronan  although  a  short  time  in  the  seminary 
had  already  won  golden  opinions  from  his 
teachers.  And  poor  Seumas  showed  him  in 
a  hundred  ways  how  much  he  thought  of 
him;  but  every  token  of  the  father's  love 
added  fuel  to  the  fire  of  jealuosy  that  burned 
in  Jack's  breast.  He  however,  kept  a  fair 
face,  nor,  in  fact,  did  he  seem  less  pleased 
than  O'Daly  of  Cronan's  success.  Cronan 
and  Jack  went  out  on  the  Bay  as  of  old,  and 
Jack  pulled  away  with  bared  arms  while 
Cronan  steered,  and  they  sang,  and  fished, 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  175 


and^talked,  nor  did  the  least  sign  of  ill-feeling 
cast  a  shadow  over  their  pleasure. 

It  was  a  glorious  evening  in  July.  The 
sun  seemed  straight  over  Aran,  and  shed  the 
brightness  of  his  splendour  over  everything, 
the  Bay,  and  the  islands,  and  the  little 
white-washed  cottages  along  the  Conne- 
mara  coast.  Out  on  the  horizon  a  turf-boat 
flashed  for  a  little  while  and  then  disappeared 
around  Clochan  Head  as  it  made  its  way  to 
Belharbour  or  Kinvarra.  It  was  a  glorious 
evening,  and  the  two  boys  were  out  and  en- 
joyed it  immensely  —  even  more  than  usual. 
Jack  was  in  his  gayest  mood,  and  it  seemed  to 
Cronan  that  the  bad  temper  that  had  long 
ago  made  his  companion  a  slave  was  at  last 
entirely  conquered.  They  were  far  out  from 
the  pier  heading  towards  Ceanngarbh.  The 
shore  along  that  side  was  bare  and  lonely;  no 
neat  white-washed  cottages  were  dotted  here 
and  there  to  relieve  the  brown  monotony  of 
rock  and  heath. 

"We  are  just  over  the  sunken  wreck  of  my 
father's  ship  now,  Cronan/ '  said  Jack,  as  they 
neared  Ceanngarbh,  and  he  glanced  over  the 
side  and  lifted  the  oars  out  of  the  water,  "You 
can  still  see  the  broken  mast-stumps,  if  you 
lean  well  over  the  side  and  look  close  to  the 
water.' ' 

The  "curach"  drifted  smoothly. 

"Lean  to  the  other  side  for  a  moment, 
Jack,"  said  Cronan,  "and  balance  the  "cu- 
rach"  while  I  look." 


176 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


Jack  did  so,  and  Cronan  peered  into  the 
sea,  He  was  wondering  what  the  ship  would 
be  like  after  so  many  years. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  lurch. 

"Hold  hard,  Cronan !"  called  Jack.  But 
Cronan  was  in  the  water  and  the  other  was 
pulling  away  with  all  his  strength. 

"He  will  never  be  able  to  swim  ashore.' 9 
he  meditated.  "When  I  get  under  Ceann- 
grabh  the  'curach'  will  go  too!" 

"What's  wrong  with  ye  there?"  called  a 
voice  behind  him. 

Jack  was  startled.  Looking  over  his 
shoulder,  he  saw  Micheal  Mor  sailing  to- 
wards him  in  one  of  the  large  trawlers.  He 
had  come  round  the  headland  while  Cronan 
had  been  looking  into  the  sea,  and  Jack  in 
the  excitement  of  the  moment  had  not  no- 
ticed him  in  the  glare  of  the  western  sunlight. 

"Cronan  has  fallen  into  the  sea,"  shouted 
Jack;  and  he  hid  as  well  as  he  could  his  con- 
fusion and  anxiety. 

"And  you  were  pulling  away  from  him,  you 
young  thief!"  roared  Micheal. 

I  pulled  a  bit  out  of  the  way,  that  he  might 
not  strike  against  the  boat,"  answered  Jack 
stiffly,  as  he  began  to  pull  back  to  where 
Cronan  had  risen. 

"Come  in  here  with  me,  Cronan,"  said 
Micheal  as  he  brought  the  trawler  around. 

"Thank  you,  Micheal!"  panted  Cronan, 
"but  I  will  go  back  as  I  came  out  —  with 
Jack." 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS. 


177 


"Have  your  own  way.  Have  your  own 
way,  my  boy,"  said  Micheal,  "but  Til  keep 
ye  in  sight.  The  likes  of  ye  shouldn't  be 
trusted  with  a  boat  at  all!" 

Jack  assisted  Cronan  into  the  boat,  and  to 
his  inquiry  as  to  whether  he  were  hurt  Cro- 
nan said: 

"Oh!  not  at  all.  I'm  wet  though,  and  would 
like  to  get  home  quickly/ ' 

If  he  suspected  anything  he  kept  his  thought 
to  himself. 

"Micheal  and  Tomas!"  he  called  to  the 
others,  "don't  tell  father  or  he'll  never  let 
me  out  of  his  sight  again,  and  I'll  not  have  a 
bit  of  pleasure  or  fun  out  of  the  vacation.  " 

"All  right  boy,  all  right,"  they  shouted 
back;  and  Micheal  added,  "But  do  ye  hurry 
up,  as  I'm  going  to  see  ye  in  safe  any- 
way." 

And  he  did;  for  he  shortened  sail  and  was 
never  more  than  a  few  boats'  length  from 
them  till  they  were  safe  ashore  in  Cuan  na 
Sgiath. 

Later  many  little  incidents  occured  to 
again  arouse  the  suspicious  of  Cronan,  but 
he  kept  his  own  counsel;  he  did  not  even  re- 
monstrate with  Jack.  He  thought  it  scarce- 
ly worth  his  while  as  he  would  be  soon  re- 
turning to  the  seminary.  One  evening,  how- 
ever, brought  matters  to  a  crisis,  and  that  too 
in  a  most  unexpected  manner.  Cronan 
was  walking  among  the  rocks  on  top  of  Croc 
Eaglais.    He  read  as  he  walked,  and  being 


178 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


deeply  interested  in  his  book,  failed  to  notice 
that  Jack  from  behind  the  rocks  watched  his 
every  movement  with  hateful  eyes.  Cronan 
at  length  turned  homewards  by  the  well- 
worn  pathway  down  the  steep  hill  side.  As 
he  walked  through  the  narrow  pass  under  the 
overhanging  rocks,  he  saw  some  small  stones 
topping  down  a  few  yards  in  front  of  him. 
He  looked  upwards  for  the  cause,  and  as  he 
did  so  a  huge  boulder  came  rolling  down  upon 
him.  He  jumped  aside;  too  late,  however,  for 
it  caught  him  on  the  ankle  and  pinned  him 
to  the  ground,  and  as  he  fell  some  of  the  fall- 
ing fragments  struck  his  head  and  he  lay 
quiet  and  still  in  the  soft  twilight. 

The  neighbours  missed  him;  and  it  was 
there  they  found  him;  and  when  they  carried 
the  uncounscios  boy  home  there  was  sorrow 
in  his  father's  heart.  For  long  O'Daly  could 
say  nothing  but  ask  God  to  spare  him 
"poor  Cronan/ ' 

"You  gave  him  to  me,  and  from  the  depths 
of  the  sea  You  delivered  him  for  me.  Spare 
him  now,  mv  God,  and  do  not  crush  a  father's 
heart— !" 

Jack  was  guarded  in  his  actions.  He  seemed 
to  have  no  knowledge  of  Cronan's  where- 
abouts all  that  evening,  and  appeared  grief- 
stricken  when  he  was  told  what  had  happened. 
He  acted  well.  Not  one  breathed  the  slight- 
est suspicion  of  his  having  anything  to  do 
with  the  affair,  and  though  he  felt  a  certain 
uneasiness  and  trouble  of  mind,  he  felt  no 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  179 


sorrow,  rather  he  hoped  Cronan  would  die. 
He  was  bound  hand  and  foot  a  slave  to 
hatred. 

As  he  lay  awake  that  night  he  heard  the 
footsteps  of  the  watchers  as  they  treaded 
softly  to  and  from  the  sick  room.  Later  he 
heard  a  heavy  step  come  to  the  front  door, 
then  Micheal  Mor's  "God  save  all  here,"  and 
his  whispered  inquiry  for  the  poor  sufferer. 
Micheal  had  been  over  in  Cillronan  all  day 
and  had  only  just  returned.  His  presence 
now  at  once  recalled  to  Jack's  mind  that  the 
old  man  had  been  a  witness  of  the  incident  in 
the  bay,  and  that  oftentimes  since  then  he 
showed  that  he  suspected  him  of  evil  inten- 
tions towards  Cronan.  At  once  he  was  on 
the  alert,  and  going  to  the  door  of  his  room 
listened  anxiously  for  what  Micheal  would 
say.  Seumas  was  calmer  now,  and  as  Micheal 
sat  with  him  at  the  fire,  he  described  as  well 
as  he  knew,  how  his  son  got  hurt,  how  they 
found  him  and  the  rock  on  his  leg,  and  his 
poor  head  bruised  and  cut. 

"And  they  carried  him  home  to  me,  Mi- 
cheal,' '  said  the  poor  father.  "And  there  he  is, 
the  pride  and  light  of  my  life,  with  death 
standing  outside  to  take  him  away  from  me  and 
to  crush  up  my  own  heart  too!  O!  'tis  hard 
'tis  hard!  May  God  help  me  but  'tis  a  sore 
trouble!" 

"God's  holy  Will  be  done!"  said  Micheal 
consolingly.  "That's  not  the  way  to  take  it, 
Seumas.    Death  didn't  come  in  the  door  at 


180 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


all  yet,  and  it  won't,  please  God!  But  even 
if  it  does,  then  welcome  be  the  Will  of 
God!" 

There  was  silence  for  a  while  between  them. 
The  fire  burned  brightly,  and  its  glow  lit  up 
the  faces  of  the  two  men  as  they  gazed  into  it. 
Micheal  looked  uneasily  at  Seumas  a  few 
times,  as  if  he  were  afraid  of  what  he  was  about 
to  say.  He  had  been  thinking  over  many 
things,  and  as  himself  would  say,  "putting 
two  and  two  together."  Many  little  incidents 
that  he  had  never  given  a  second  thought 
to  before  now  came  to  his  mind,  and  he  fitted 
them  together  as  best  he  could.  He  was  sa- 
tisfied they  formed  a  chain  of  evidence,  and 
so,  drawing  a  deep  breath,  he  began: — 

"Tell  me,  Seumas,  where  was  the  lad  when 
this  happened?" 

"What  lad?"  returned  Seumas. 

"Where  was  Jack  at  the  time?"  asked 
Micheal. 

"Maiseadh!  how  would  I  know?"  replied 
Seumas.  "'Twasn't  he  that  was  troubling 
me,  Micheal.  He  was  sorry  enough,  at  any 
rate,  when  he  saw  his  poor  comrade,  God 
help  us!" 

"Hah!  he  was,  in  troth,  I'll  go  bail,"  said 
Micheal,  sarcastically.  "Seumas,  I  can  say 
a  thing  or  two,  and  maybe  I'd  open  your  eyes 
for  you.    I  can  say  a  thing  or  two!" 

"What  do  you  mean,  man?"  said  O'Daly. 
"I  can't  understand  you.  " 

"And  never  can  understand  what  Til  tell 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS,  181 


you."  said  Micheal,  "no  more  can  myself! 
Where  is  Jack  now?  Where  is  he?" 

'The  boy  is  in  bed,"  said  Seumas,  "where 
else  would  he  be?" 

Jack  was  then  at  his  bedroom  door,  lis- 
tening attentively.  He  could  hear  almost 
every  word  of  the  whispered  conversation. 

"Very  well  then,"  said  Micheal,  'Til  tell 
you  things  now,  Seumas,  that  you  won't  like, 
an'  'tis  no  pleasure  to  me  to  speak.  May  God 
pardon  me  if  I  do  wrong  to  anyone.  What  I 
do  I  do  with  a  good  intention.  All  I'm  sorry 
for  is  that  I  didn't  tell  you  sooner  and  save 
you,  perhaps,  a  lot  of  trouble." 

He  then  proceeded  to  disclose  what  he  had 
observed  in  Jack's  character,  and  his  doubts 
about  the  sinceretyof  his  friendship  forjCronan. 
He  enumerated  the  very  many  incidents  that 
led  him  to  distrust  the  younger  boy,  and  laid 
particular  emphasis  on  the    boating  affair 

"When,"  he  said,  "it  was  clear  Jack  meant 
to  injure  the  other.  I  would  have  told  you 
this  long  ago,  Seumas,  but  poor  Cronan  begged 
me  not  to  do  so.  And,"  added  Micheal, 
"it  was  not  once  the  likes  of  these  happened 
either,  but  many  times;  and  I  warned  Jack, 
but  he'd  prove  on  me  up  to, and  against,  my 
two  eyes,  that  they  were  only  makin'  fun  and 
showin'  what  they  could  do  —  and  faix  it 
was  strange  fun  —  and  so  I  held  my  tongue 
about  it  all." 

"And  I  wish  you  held  it  now,  too,"  said 
Seumas  bitterly,  "and  not  bring  wicked 
thoughts  into  my  mind  about  that  child." 


182 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


"And  I  wish  I  could/ '  said  Micheal,  taking 
no  notice  of  the  rebuke,  "and  I  wish  all  I  have 
said  was  a  lump  of  devilish  lies.  But,  Seu- 
mas,  that  child  is  a  wicked  one,  and  your  son 
when  God  gives  him  strength  again,  will  tell 
you  no  lie,  but  will  prove  what  I  say." 

"I'll  call  Jack  before  your  face  this  very 
minute,  Micheal/ '  said  O'Daly,  rising. 

"Hold  hard,  Seumas!"  said  Micheal,  lay- 
ing a  hand  on  him.  "You  will  do  a  bad  act 
if  you  call  him.  He  may  make  a  noise  that 
would  injure  Cronan,  who  needs  the  rest  and 
quiet  now.  Let  him  be  till  morning,  when 
we  can  go  outside,  and  Til  be  there  to  speak 
before  him  then,  as  I  do  before  you  now." 

Seumas  O'Daly  scarcely  replied  to  Micheal's 
Beannacht  leat,  as  the  latter  went  out  of  the 
door  some  time  afterwards.  His  head  was 
too  full  of  sore  thoughts.  He  had  wished  for 
a  second  son,  that  he  might  let  his  own  go 
from  him  to  a  higher  sphere  of  life,  and  one 
came  to  him  from  the  sea  and  the  storm,  only 
to  be  now  accused  of  the  basest  ingratitude 
and  hypocrisy  by  his  truest  friend  —  a  friend 
who  would  have  no  desire  to  deceive  him. 
Long  into  the  night  the  whole  matter  weighed 
heavily  on  his  mind;  he  turned  it  over  and 
over,  seeking  in  every  way  to  excuse  Jack 
from  every  wicked  intention,  yet  the  convic- 
tion with  which  Micheal  spoke  recurred 
again  and  again,  and  the  whole  series  of 
thought  and  argument  repeated  itself.  A 
few  times  he  thought  of  going  to  the  boy  him- 


ITS  SUNSHfNE  AND  SHADOWS,  1S3 


self  for  some  explanation,  but  when  he  looked 
towards  the  door  of  the  bedroom  he  changed 
his  mind  and  said  to  himself: — 

1  'We'll  wait,  and  see  what  the  morning  will 
do."  At  last  he  dozed  where  he  sat;  his 
dreams  were  troubled,  because  of  the  con- 
versation with  Micheal  Mor,  yet  he  did  not 
awraken  before  the  clear  light  of  the  dawn 
stole  through  the  chinks  in  the  shuttered 
windows,  and  brought  back  his  old  friend 
to  keep  his  word.  MicheM  had  risen 
early,  and  had  hastened  up  to  O' Daly's. 

"I'm  here  to  stand  by  what  I  said,  Seumas," 
he  said,  as  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  other's 
shoulders  and  gave  him  a  gentle  tap. 
"Though  I  couldn't  sleep  last  night  with  think- 
ing of  it,  still  I'm  glad  I  spoke,  and  'tis  hard 
on  me  that  it  had  to  be  so." 

Seumas  was  dazed  for  a  moment  on  a- 
wakening;  then  he  pulled  himself  together, 
and  recalling  the  conversation  of  the  previous 
night  walked  without  a  word  straight  to 
Jack's  room.  He  found  it  empty,  however, 
for  Jack  having  heard  Miche&l  accusation, 
decided  it  would  be  better  to  leave  in  time, 
than  wait  to  make  a  defence,  which  at  most 
would  be  considered  lame.  He  would  have 
to  leave  anyway,  he  reflected,  for  the  neigh- 
bours would  cast  side-long  glances  at  him, 
and  in  their  love  for  openness  and  candour 
would  boycott  him  as  a  knave  and  a  hypocrite. 
They  would  always  have  a  suspicion  of 
him. 


184 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


He  put  a  few  little  necessaries  together  and 
slipped  away  in  the  darkness.  To  prevent 
pursuit  he  stole  over  to  Micheal  Mor's  house, 
and  tapping  gently  at  the  window  of  Tomas, 
the  favourite  companion  of  his  sports,  told 
him  briefly  of  how  he  was  suspected  of  in- 
juring Cronan.  "'Tis  all  false,  Tomas, " 
he  said.  "But  I'd  sooner  go  away  than  be 
accused  of  such  a  thing.  They  can  prove 
nothing  against  me,  and  I  want  you  to  tell 
them  so,  and  to  ask  them  not  to  follow  me, 
as  even  if  they  brought  me  back  I  could  not 
stay  here  any  longer,  for  many  would  still 
think  me  guilty.' ' 

He  bound  the  boy  to  silence  till  clear  day, 
and  then  bidding  him  farewell  disappeared 
in  the  night. 

Whither  he  went  no  one  knew,  Some  who, 
in  the  early  dawn,  were  going  to  Kinvarra 
Fair,  had  seen  him  going  across  the  fields 
apparently  in  the  same  direction.  They 
thought  he  was  only  going  to  tell  the  doctor 
how  Cronan  was,  and  he  was  too  far  away  to 
call  him.  Others,  later  on,  saw  him  making 
towards  Galway.  So  many  turns  did  he 
take  that  he  left  no  one  the  wiser  as  to  his 
ultimate  destination.  No  attempt  was  made 
to  get  him  back;  only  a  few  inquiries  made 
through  natural  curiosity,  and  he  was  gone 
completely  out  of  their  lives,  and  soon  gone 
out  of  their  minds  as  well;  gone  as  he  had 
come  —  in  mystery. 

After  a  few  days,  Cronan  was  happily  de- 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  185 


clared  out  of  danger.  He  still  required  greet 
care;  but,  as  Dr.  Mackay  said,  his  recovery 
was  mostly  a  matter  of  time.  Slowly,  very 
slowly,  he  regained  his  strength,  but  he  did 
regain  it,  and  with  it  his  former  spirits  and 
vivacity.  The  late  summer  saw  him  once 
more  out  of  doors,  and  shortly  he  ventured 
out  on  the  sea  with  Micheal.  The  colour  of 
health  came  to  his  cheeks,  and  the  old  play- 
ful smile  was  on  his  lips,  and  the  light  of  joy- 
ful youth  was  in  his  eyes.  Cronan  was  his  old 
self  again.  His  father  no  longer  wished  to 
have  another0  son,"  but  now  he  was  resolved 
that  Cronan  should  pursue  his  studies,  and 
he  would  leave  all  else  in  the  hands  of  God. 
He  recalled  his  foolish  notions  of  the  previous 
years;  how  he  wanted  someone  to  whom  he 
would  leave  what  he  had.  One  came  to  him 
and  what  resulted?  And  then  something 
he  had  often  heard  flashed  through  his  mind, 
"Man  proposes,  but  God  disposes/'  He  paused. 
That  finished  the  matter  for  him.  He 
would  have  Cronan  go  back  to  his  studies, 
and  leave  all  the  rest  to  God. 

******* 

Fifteen  years  afterwards,  in  the  cool  of  a 
June  evening,  a  steam  collier  anchored  in  the 
1  'roads' '  at  the  entrance  to  Galway  Harbour 
A  boat  immediately  shoved  off,  and  four  oars 
sped  her  quickly  towards  the  quay.  The 
pilot,  who  had  taken  the  steamer  from  Arran 
to  the  "roads,"  jumped  ashore  as  the  boat 
touched  the  landing  steps. 


186 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


4 'Wait  here,  men,"  he  said  to  the  sailors, 
'Til  be  back  in  a  jiffey,  for  'tisn't  far  up  to 
the  house.' 9 

He  ran  up  the  steps,  and  hastened  across 
the  quays,  and  was  lost  to  sight  as  he  dodged 
through  the  foreign  timber,  manure,  and  corn, 
piled  up  in  all  sorts  of  conceivable  and  in- 
conceivable places.  Up  the  crooked  narrow 
streets  he  went  and  was  saved  a  great  part 
of  the  journey  by  meeting  one  of  the  curates 
on  the  footway.  He  stopped:  "I  beg  your 
pardon,  Fr,  but  I  want  to  talk  to  you  a  minute 
he  said. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter  with  you,  Sea- 
ghan?"  asked  the  priest. 

"Twill  be  the  blessin'  o'  God,  sir,  if  you 
hurry  out  to  the  vessel  in  the  "roads".  The 
second  mate  is  at  the  point  o'  death,  an'  by 
the  way  he's  callin'  he  wants  a  priest  badly. 
I  left  the  boat  here  below  at  the  dock,  an' 
she'll  take  you  out  an'  back  in  no  time, 
Father." 

"Let  us  hurry  so,  Seaghan.  Bring  me  to 
the  boat  at  once.  'Twill  waste  time  if  I  have 
to  look  out  for  her  myself." 

And  back  they  went  the  way  the  pilot  had 
come.  The  priest  entered  the  boat,  and  they 
pushed  off,  and  the  boat's  prow  sent  wave- 
lets circling  away  from  it  and  disturbed  the 
glass-like  surface  of  the  bay.  The  priest 
wondered  whence  the  poor  wanderer  was. 
During  his  life  he,  doubltess,  had  seen  many 
lands,  had  been  in  many  climes,  yet  now  he 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS. 


187 


had  come  to  the  end  of  his  course;  he  was 
going  home  now,  and  he  would  never  wander 
more.  The  priest  prayed  silently  for  him 
he  was  about  to  visit,  and  asked  God's  bles- 
sing on  the  poor  sailor's  death-bed.  At  last 
they  reached  the  side  of  the  vessel.  The 
captain  received  and  welcomed  the  priest  on 
board  the  ship,  and  then  conducted  him  at 
once  to  the  mate's  cabin. 

"Remain  here  a  moment,  Father,"  he 
said,  "I  will  tell  him  you  have  come." 

A  gentle  knock  and  the  captain  entered: — 

"The  priest  is  here  now  mate,"  he  said. 
"May  he  come  in?" 

"Oh,  yes,  yes!"  was  the  weak  response. 
Then  there  was  a  groan  as  of  pain.  The 
captain  came  out. 

"Go  in  Father/'  he  said,  "I  don't  think 
you  have  much  time  to  spare.  You  should 
make  haste." 

The  Priest  entered,  and  stooping  over  the 
dying  man,  whispered  kindly: — 

"Poor  fellow!  Let  me  help  you  to  be  happy. 
God  is  very  good,  my  child,  and  you  need  not 
fear  Him.  Let  me  help  you  to  give  all  your 
love  to  God."  He  continued  with  words  of 
consolation  and  hope,  and  all  the  time  he 
could  not  fail  to  notice  that  the  sick  man  was 
gazing  intently  into  his  face.  The  priest  was 
about  to  take  the  man's  hand  in  his,  when 
suddenly  it  was  drawn  away,  and  the  sufferer 
turning  full  towards  him,  asked: 

"Are  you  Cronan  O'Daly?" 


188 


AN  IRISH  PARISH, 


"Yes,  my  son,"  answered  Cronan,  and  he 
wondered  how  the  stranger  could  know  him. 

A  cloud  seemed  to  darken  the  face  of  the 
sick  man.  Then,  with  all  the  anger  his  weak- 
ened condition  admitted,  he  said.: 

"Then  you  shall  not  help  me.  I  hate  you 
now  as  I  have  hated  you  all  my  life!"  And  he 
turned  away  his  face. 

The  priest  was  completely  taken  by  sur- 
prise. He  at  last  recognised  Jack  —  poor 
wayward  Jack;  and  after  all  those  years  it 
was  thus  they  met.  Gently  he  took  the  white 
hand  in  his,  and  overcoming  the  feeble  re- 
sistance of  the  other,  pressed  it  to  his  lips. 
He  spoke  kindly  of  the  happier  days  before 
Jack  began  to  hate  him,  and  he  took  care  to 
not  as  much  as  hint  at  the  sad  incident  that 
caused  their  long  separation.  He  showed  he 
had  no  enmity,  but  would  do  every  kindness 
to  his  one-time  companion.  He  waited  a 
while.  Time  was  passing,  time  that  would 
decide  the  fate  of  one  of  them  for  all  eternity. 
Now  and  again  the  priest  spoke  gently,  and 
gradually  led  up  to  the  great  grace  of  a  happy 
death.  "There  is  no  time  now  to  get  another 
priest,  who  might  be  able  to  change  his 
heart,"  he  thought.  "I  must  only  do  my 
best  for  him." 

Poor  Jack,"  said  he  aloud,  "we  first  knew 
each  other  as  friends,  let  us  be  so  again  be- 
fore we  part.  Put  the  folly  of  youth  out  of 
your  mind;  let  it  not  stand  between  us  two 
now,  and  between  you  and  God.  Come, 


ITS  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOWS.  189 


my  old  companion,  put  on  your  soul  the  white 
robe  of  innocence  before  you  go  to  meet  our 
Saviour,  Who  is  waiting  for  you.?"  He 
paused  again.  He  listened  to  the  breath 
drawn  irregularly  and  with  difficulty  and 
lifted  up  his  heart  to  God  in  prayer.  There 
was  a  movement  of  the  head  on  the  pillows 
and  with  great  trouble  and  pain,  the  dying 
man  turned  towards  him,  his  face  streaming 
with  tears. 

"Cronan,"  he  gasped,  as  he  attempted  to 
stretch  out  his  hands,  1  'since  you  so  freely 
forgive,  God  surely  will  not  be  hard  with  me. 
Sit  beside  me  and  take  the  load  of  my  sins 
and  my  sorrow  from  me." 

The  priest  entered  the  boat,  and  they 
pushed  off.  As  they  sped  over  the  water, 
the  prow  sent  wavelets  circling  away  and 
disturbed  the  glasslike  surface  of  the  bay. 
The  scene  was  expressive  of  peace.  All  in 
the  boat  were  sibnt,  but  the  priest  was  call- 
ing to  mind  how  Jack  had  come  to  his  father's 
house  from  the  sea  and  storm,  and  now  he 
had  gone  to  his  Father's  house  in  a  great 
calm.  The  collier  stood  boldly  out  against 
the  Western  sky;  not  a  ripple  licked  its  dark 
side;  a  great  stillness  reigned  over  everything. 
It  was  only  a  picture  of  that  peace  which 
reigns  where  Jack's  soul  had  gone. 


END. 


DOES  NOT  CIRCULATE 


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